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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26658298">A Far Cry from Home</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWyldeWynd/pseuds/TheWyldeWynd'>TheWyldeWynd</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 3, Far Cry 4, Far Cry 5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, But Imma Make 'em Anyway, Canon-Typical Violence, Crack, Dark, Explicit Language, Fluff, Friendship, Healthy Relationships, Hurt/Comfort, Most of These People Should Not be Interacting, One Shot Collection, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sexual Tension, Unhealthy Relationships, a little of everything</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 10:13:56</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>26,515</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26658298</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWyldeWynd/pseuds/TheWyldeWynd</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Changes large and changes small, and sometimes change changes nothing at all.  Take a deep breath and buckle in, because now we're A Far Cry from Home.</p><p>(A collection of one-shot Far Cry crossovers.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>87</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>48</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. The Tiger and The Siren</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <i>*emerges from vents*</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Ahem.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <b>NEW FIC THAT UPDATES WEEKLY!!!  *CUE AIRHORNS!*</b>
  </i>
</p><p><i>Oh!  </i><b>OH</b> that feels good to say, I missed this, I am so happy right now!!!  Enjoy!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The world is dancing – a slow, dreamy waltz of mist and starlight turning rounds in a picturesque field of flowers, butterflies flitting through the air and the taste of singed sugar and gentle promises whispered under moonlight soft on his tongue and thick inside his nostrils.</p><p>“Oh Yuma,” his own voice sounds distant to his ears, slurring off a heavy tongue that’s miles away from where he’s currently floating. “What fresh fuckery is <em>this</em>?”</p><p>There’s no answer to his question. Not that he’s <em>expecting</em> one, mind. Not now that Yuma’s –</p><p>Yuma is…</p><p>Yuma…</p><p>The burnt sugar taste turns more acrid as he squeezes his eyes shut, shakes his head, presses his fingers deep into the sides of his nose and corners of his eyes as he tries to think past the fog of –</p><p>Of…</p><p>What… had he taken this –</p><p>Something touches him – the feather light brush of a hand against his back locking his muscles into place half a beat late.</p><p>Pagan goes still, stops, <em>waits</em>, a lifetime of experience holding him in place as gentle fingers trace over his back and across his ribs, breathy humming lilting through the air to fill his ears.</p><p>“Well,” a lifetime of experience of a <em>different</em> sort eases the word off his heavy tongue without excess slurring, his tone light and jovial even as he relaxes his muscles, flexes his fingers, finds a new balance in his altered state and readies himself for the fight or kill or whatever he ends up feeling like. “<em>Someone’s</em> either feeling very brave or <em>very</em> presumptuous.” His lips pull back, a pretty and polished and precise smile of teeth and hungry knives as he turns his head towards the intrusive touch and –</p><p>                                                                – a breeze whispers across his face, soft and warm and bittersweet as a goodbye kiss, wisps of stardust dancing past him and –</p><p>
  <em>What…?</em>
</p><p>                                – the world falls out beneath him and fades away, his heart stopping, breath catching, eyes going wide at –</p><p>“I-” His voice catches in his throat, heat burning up and into his eyes even as he starts to shake and shiver at the sight of… “Ishwari?”</p><p>Her face – that face, <em>Ishwari’s face</em> – looks up at him from behind a veil of mist and starlight, just as heartbreakingly beautiful as he’s seen in his dreams and nightmares and regrets for the past twenty years.</p><p>He stares at her – something sharp and sick and hot and cold twisting in his stomach like a knife – and, for a moment, there’s a flicker of (surprise, confusion, calculation) expression on her face, and then –</p><p>A gasp falls from his lips, a few tears falling after it as she <em><b>smiles</b></em> (<em>Ishwari’s smile</em>, that he never thought he’d see again, filling his eyes and his world and his blackened husk of a heart) and reaches upwards, one hand (warm and gentle and softer than he remembers) cradling his cheek tenderly (and he melts into the touch, turns into it like a flower towards the sun, nuzzles against her skin instinctively as he breathes in the strangely sweet smell of her skin), and there’s a soft laughter (a touch too light and breathy, silver bells on a spring breeze) and –</p><p>“I’m glad you came.”</p><p>Pagan shudders, something like a sob catching in his chest as those words sweep over him – the tone strangely, indescribably off, but the <em><b>voice</b></em>…</p><p>“<em>Ishwari.</em>” It falls from his lips, a prayer and a sob all at once, decades of painstakingly crafted armor and a lifetime of savagery and rage falling from him like a tattered coat as the sound of her voice and the feel of her skin and the sight of <em>her</em> cuts through every inch of him, all the way down to the endlessly festering wound at his core, raw and vulnerable and slowly lethal since she –</p><p>That earlier something twists again – a cold, sickly rush sweeping through him –</p><p>                        (It smells too sweet, feels too soft, sounds just <em><b>off</b></em> as the mist swirls around him)</p><p>        – and against every want and need inside him Pagan pulls back, stares down into her eyes (<em>too</em> far down…), gritting his teeth against the twist of sadness in her expression and the <em>agony</em> it brings.</p><p>“You left, Ishwari.” The words seer his mouth and throat like burning sugar and poppies, a pain that’s nothing compared to the <em>guilt</em> he feels. But… “You <em>left</em>…”</p><p>                        (Ishwari left Kyrat, Ishwari left him, Ishwari – Ishwari… left… she –)</p><p>Another hand brushes his skin, cups the other side of his face, draws his eyes open and back to her and banishes the taste of ash and <em><b>loss</b></em> from his tongue as she looks up at him and <em>smiles</em>.</p><p>“I’m here <em>now</em>.” And she pulls him in, gentle hands guiding him down (too far –) until their foreheads press together, the unfamiliar gesture meaningless but for the reaffirmation that she’s <em>there</em>, his Ishwari, warm and soft and <em>there</em> within his arms (his hand lifting instinctively to her hip and finding the bottom of her ribs, his hand cradling the back of her head and his fingers spanning too far through strangely feathery hair) and he can’t stop shaking, can’t get his breathing under control, can’t quite suppress the small, fragile sob that travels up from his bloodied heart and passes his lips as her name.</p><p>“It’s alright.” Small, soft fingers ease from his face to card through his hair. “I’m here.” The recitation pulls his eyes open and onto the borderline feline smile on Ishwari’s face, a moment of satisfaction that fades to loving warmth as she steps back, her hands falling and trailing down to lace their fingers together. “You’re home now.”</p><p>                        (<em>No. That’s not…</em>)</p><p>Their intertwined fingers bring her to a halt at the length of his arms – surprise fading to (frustration) sadness on her face and he feels a rush of guilt at it. But…</p><p>“This…”</p><p>Impossibly his eyes lift from Ishwari, flicking over the world behind and above her, the picturesque field and the distant tree and the mists and flowers full of starlight and butterflies, <em>not</em> Kyrat, not their home together, not the shanty California apartment he’d only ever seen in pictures and through tinted car windows and in so many nightmares and <em>regrets</em> over the last few years, and even if he could ever <em>imagine</em> making his way to Shangri-La –</p><p>“This isn’t…”</p><p>Fingers touch his cheek again, drawing him back to Ishwari’s (<strike>brown <em>blue? dark</em></strike><em>) </em>eyes, to the sadness and sympathy (<strike>frustration quiet growing desperation</strike>) inside and “It’s <em>alright</em>” washes over him with the burnt candy sweetness of fresh flowers and gentle reassurance. “It’s alright,” and when she steps back he follows, warmth and peace and <em>right</em> returning as he lets her be his guiding star, the smile on her face as he comes (a dog at its mater’s heels, a pilgrim kneeling in worship of his goddess, a monster dressed as a man who had only ever loved the woman standing before him) silences his confusion and fear like a knife in the dark. “It’s alright,” a third time spoken, sacred and satisfied, “I’m here now –”</p><p>        (<em>Yes.</em>)</p><p>                                                “– we’re together again –”</p><p>        (<em><b>Yes.</b></em>)</p><p>                                                                                        “– just the two of us.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>        (<em>Wh-</em>)</p><p>        (<em>What?</em>)</p><p>There’s a tug on his hand, a catch of breath and flicker of expression as he stops, cold creeping up his spine and freezing him in place because –</p><p>                        – that’s not –</p><p>“No…”</p><p>                – <em>right</em>…</p><p>And then the cold crests, climbs to the summit and crashes back down into his core – stomach, heart, <em>soul</em> – and his eyes go <em>wide</em>, body tensing and jerking (up and back and away) and head snapping around to search as he <em>remembers</em> –</p><p>“<em><b>Ajay.</b></em>”</p><p>He’s moving – feet carrying him as his eyes dart frantically across the mist shrouded horizon for any sign of his wayward boy – when a hand catches his, pulling him to an instinctive halt, and an increasingly familiar touch (too soft for all its panic and scented with sticky sweetness and starlight) at his face seeking to ease his rush of dread.</p><p>“He’s <em>waiting</em> for us.” Ishwari (voice too high with desperation, eyes too wide with confused fear and too sharp with frustration <strike>and <em>blue</em></strike>) pulls him close, smiles as she strokes his cheek and sighs, “Waiting for us to join him in <em>paradise</em>.”</p><p>“<em>What</em>?” The surge of (disbelief, incredulity, <em>ridicule</em>) confusion those words bring is so strong it borders on <em>rage</em> (blasphemy, <em>sacrilege</em> for him to feel so against <em>Ishwari</em>, but… the <em>idea</em>, the very <em>thought</em> that <em><b>Pagan</b></em> might someday be worthy of Shangri-La…), and it’s all he can do to stumble back and shake his head. “No… no that’s…” his head aches, the sugar sweetness cloying to the point of suffocation around him. “He <em>called</em> me…” Pagan had never expected, never <em>dreamed</em> (let alone <em>hoped</em>) that Ajay might, had sent the number (the lifeline) because he’d <em>needed</em> to, <em><b>had</b></em> to, never once thought he might actually… “He said he needed my –”</p><p>Hands clasp his face, eyes drawing him into drowning depths, and “<em>It’s <b>alright</b></em>” rings out a <em>fourth</em> time (four – desperate, deceit, <em><b>death</b></em>) as his world is drowned in burning sweetness and choking mists and blinding stars and –</p><p>His world and his fears and his mind fade away under the blissful tide of warmth and <em>peace</em> that Ishwari brings, suddenly nothing important but <em>her</em> as she <em><b>pleads</b></em> with him.</p><p>“Please,”</p><p>He breathes, starlight on his tongue,</p><p>“come with me,”</p><p>her hands take his, the plea he’d refused once and spent every heartbeat since regretting now offered to him once more, the second chance he never dreamed of and doesn’t deserve held out to him and</p><p>“my darling.” </p><p>the world falls away.                </p><p>Pagan takes a breath – deep and slow and sweet as a lover’s promise – and opens his eyes.</p><p>“Love.”</p><p>Silence falls.</p><p>Just for a moment.</p><p>Just long enough for her face to go blank and then almost immediately twist softly with pure confusion – brows pulling together and a tiny little smile flittering at her lips as she tilts her head, looks up at him, breathes “What –”</p><p>He moves.</p><p>Her eyes go wide – shock and terror and <em>blue</em> flooding into them – as his head clamps down on her throat, locking the gasp (<em>cry, <b>plea</b></em>) in place, beyond the reach of her lips, soft little hands scrabbling ineffectually at his, her face twisting and warping in blind <em>panic</em> as his fingers slowly constrict and he leans in close.</p><p>“<em>Ishwari</em>,” and he says the name like a prayer, like a psalm, like a zealot’s war-hymn, like an inquisitor’s condemnation and verdict and final sentence all in one breath, reverent and <em>feral</em> between his bared teeth as he slowly lifts her from the ground by her fluttering throat, drinking in the panic and the desperation and ever growing realization in her (hands clawing, nails scratching, feet kicking as she fights and flails against him pathetically) as he leans in close and <em>snarls</em>, “called me ‘<em>my <b>love</b></em>.’”</p><p>And he waits, watches, <em>just</em> long enough to see the total <em>understanding</em> flood into her eyes.</p><p>“She was very particular with her words.”</p><p>And then he squeezes.</p><p>Something gives beneath his hand, something explodes inside her eyes, and Pagan’s vision <em>burns</em> – red and savage and <em>hungry</em> – with a fire that curls through him and he <em>moves</em> again – squeezes and shakes and snaps – and something more gives, something <em>cracks</em> (splintering and shattering, wet and <em>beautiful</em>), and he <em>watches</em> the play of terror and <em>agony</em> that burns like a dying star before going suddenly and deliciously <em>out</em>.</p><p>He holds for a moment.</p><p>Still.</p><p>Watching.</p><p><em>Delighting</em>.</p><p>And then, lips curling, he relaxes his fingers and lets the thing drop.</p><p>He waits a moment longer, watching as the body hits the ground in a plume of mist and butterflies.</p><p>Watches it just long enough to see it change – age melting away, skin and hair going pale, body going short and slight, clothes bleaching and shifting into a pretty little white dress, and the last semblance of dark eyes (<em>Ishwari’s</em> eyes, <em>Ajay’s</em> eyes) evaporating until there’s only rapidly clouding blue.</p><p>Heat burns through him, and when he turns from the corpse the misty glade is ablaze – flames licking across the ground and through the air and exploding in plumes of color, the fairytale veneer of tranquility <em>shattered</em> as clarity and blind <em>fury</em> take hold of the drugs coursing through his system and <em>twist</em>.</p><p>There’s sound approaching, rapidly, and most of it’s coming from his head but at least <em>some</em> of it carries the telltale opacity of <em>reality</em>.</p><p>There are voices inside the clamor.</p><p>And those voices don’t sound very happy, now do they?</p><p>No.</p><p>Pagan turns towards the storm, head leading and body following, shoulders rolling and hands flexing lightly, muscles going sinuous as his feet start to move him softly forward, each step and shift effortless and backed by the weight of an ocean of blood as instinct and experience lead him towards the dance floor.</p><p>
  <em>Hold tight, Ajay.</em>
</p><p>Screams ring out from the distance, shadows licked by flame and color reeling beyond the mists, baying their horror and agony and <em>Wrath</em> and invoking the name of their false prophet as they swarm.</p><p>Hunger rising up alongside the bloodsong, Pagan moves towards the sounds and <em>smiles</em>.</p><p>
  <em>Uncle Pagan will be with you shortly, dear boy.</em>
</p><p>And, teeth bared, a tiger stalks into the mist.</p><p>
  <em>This is going to be <b>fun</b>.</em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Chapter Warnings:  Non-consensual Drug Use (<i>The Bliss</i>), Allusions to Consensual Drug Use, Mental Manipulation, and Character Death (<i>Bye <strike>Felicia</strike> Faith!</i>)</p><p>
  <i>In which The Mad King storms the Gate for his stolen heir, and The Siren learns too late that there are some people you don't toy with.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Or, a vague AU wherein Ajay is in Hope Country for some reason and ends up on-Plan-M/at-the-Godzilla-Threshold (aka: WTF, I'm caught in <b>another</b> civil war and - oh shit I'm getting abducted, not <b>this</b> again, Siri call Dad), and The Project at Eden's Gate is about to get very confused and then <b>very</b> terrified as an affable and pink-clad quinquagenarian starts tearing shit up all across their evil empire - because Papa Tiger (like Papa Wolf, but meaner and scarier).  The (surviving) Seeds are flailing, the Deputy is drawing up adoption papers, and tucked into a bunker somewhere Ajay is just done with his life.  (Hurk is trying to go unnoticed.  He is doing a very terrible job of it).</i>
</p><p><i>Ok, so real talk?  This entire work started as an excuse for me to write <b>this</b> chapter.  I am so happy with both decisions.</i><br/><i>Little backstory, though, for anyone who's interested...  So a while back I was scrolling through Greg Bryk's twitter (because... well, why else does twitter exist?) and saw a piece of fanart he'd reposted and... well... all I could think was</i> <b>"No."</b>  <i>Now don't get me wrong, it was a <b>beautiful</b> piece of fanart;</i> <b>but</b> <i>the <b>content</b> of it was...</i> <b>"No."</b>  <i>Because, see, it was a picture of Joseph Seed with two people kneeling before him, clearly having accepted Joseph's message and converted, which is all well and good... except</i> <b>No</b> <i>because the two people kneeling were Vaas Montenegro and Pagan Min - aka the <b>two people</b> in <b>all</b> of Far Cry who are <strike>debatably</strike> <b>least</b> likely to ever drink Papa Joe's Kool-Aid (because <b>seriously</b>.  Vaas has <b>canonically</b> gone through Joseph's whole "I am the mouthpiece to a deity and you must obey me in all things, we are family and I love you so ruin your life for my cult" thing and is <b>100%</b> not on board with that sort of thing; and because Pagan A) has probably done so many drugs by this point in his life that the Bliss would probably barely do anything (this one actually applies to Vaas too), B) is ambivalent <b>at best</b> towards religion, C) is the damn <b>KING</b> here bitches, and D) well... ultimately Pagan Min would only need to hear about what happened to Joseph's daughter before deciding that the Prophet needs to <b>die</b>).  And so it was that the plot-bunnies began to spawn, like the rabid little monsters they are.</i></p><p><i>So yeah!  Here we are - a series of one-shots that take characters from two different Far Cry games and throw them together in slight-to-major AUs.  What madness will happen?  Tune in each Friday (circumstances permitting, and alternatively on Saturdays in some places because Time Zones are a thing) to find out!  Welp, hope y'all enjoyed, and see you NEXT WEEK!!!</i>  \(^-^)/</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. The Soldier and The Warrior</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <i>Happy October everyone!  Let's get a little bit of spookiness going!</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Enjoy!</i>
</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The grounds of St Francis are unusually quiet as Jacob stalks his way towards the cages – his pet shaking and cringing at his heels and Chosen tense and wide-eyed everywhere he looks.  Even the latest collection of initiates is deathly silent – the air devoid of their moans and whimpers and pleas for mercy for once as they curl up in the far corners of their cages.  The whole area has the sound, the look, and the <i>feel</i> of a woodland glade when the deer have caught scent of a predator.</p>
<p>Normally that predator would be Jacob.</p>
<p>Normally.</p>
<p>His teeth are gritting themselves together as he walks, his muscles tense and blood quietly boiling, his fingers <i>longing</i> for the hilt of his knife.</p>
<p><i>This is a <b>mistake</b>,</i> he thinks, just as he’s thought the last two times he’s made this walk.</p>
<p>Not that it matters what he thinks.</p>
<p>He’s close enough now to see the <i>Problem</i>, sitting limply against the farthest wall of the farthest cage, looking for all the world small and helpless and <i><b>weak</b></i>.</p>
<p>He knows better than to believe it.</p>
<p>Even as he approaches the other man <i>appears</i> to be either asleep or unconscious, giving no indication that he’s aware of Jacob’s approach; likewise, when Jacob comes to a halt before the cage and its occupant finally shifts – head lifting and eyes opening slowly – it could easily be taken as him waking up.</p>
<p>Again, Jacob knows better.</p>
<p>Jacob’s <i>fucking <b>known better</b></i> since he’d first lain eyes on the man-shaped <i>thing</i> – the so-called “Deputy” before him.</p>
<p><i><b>This,</b></i> he stares back, meets the gray-blue eyes below him evenly, wanting nothing more than to put a bullet between them, <i>is a <b>mistake</b>.</i></p>
<p>He’s known it since the church (eyes falling on the figure behind Whitehorse and the marshal, blood running cold and instincts screaming and <i>Joseph, no, <b>wait</b></i>).  He’s <i>said</i> it since they got Joseph <i>back</i>, since the man vanished into the night, since Joseph said (<i>Prophesized</i>) that he would return and must be brought to salvation.  He’s <i>continuously</i> said it since “The Deputy” reappeared to wage a one man <i>war</i> against the Project – blood and terror and death following him like a living plague, ruination left in his wake like a force of nature, merciless and murderous as the Grim <i>fucking</i> Reaper.  </p>
<p>He’s warned, <i><b>begged</b></i>, tried again and again to <i>explain</i>.</p>
<p>To no avail.</p>
<p>Because Jacob’s known since the man walked into sight, bleeding <i>danger</i> into the air with the walk and stance and aura of a <i>predator</i>.</p>
<p>The <i>eyes</i> – cold and hungry and <i><b>empty</b></i> – of a <i>killer</i>.</p>
<p>And he’s <i>tried</i>.  He’s ranted and he’s railed, <i>screamed</i>, ‘I don’t know who or <i>what</i> that is but he’s <i>not</i> a <i>fucking <b>deputy</b></i>, and you <i>can’t</i> –”</p>
<p>And it hasn’t mattered.</p>
<p>Hasn’t mattered because John doesn’t <i>understand</i>, because Faith doesn’t <i>believe</i>, and because Joseph <i>doesn’t <b>care</b>.</i></p>
<p>And that last is worst of all.</p>
<p>Because –</p>
<p>Because Joseph <i>does</i> see it.  <i>Understands</i> it.  <i>Believes</i> it.  Could so easily say the word and <i>end it</i>.</p>
<p>But he <i>won’t</i>.</p>
<p>Because that isn’t what The Voice wants.</p>
<p>Because The Voice <i><b>wants</b></i> ‘The Deputy’ who <i>isn’t</i>.</p>
<p>And because of that… Joseph will yield up <i>everything</i>, just to see the empty-eyed killer brought into the flock.</p>
<p>Assuming there’s even a flock <i>left</i> by that point.</p>
<p>There definitely won’t be any Heralds, unless Jacob’s completely mistaken.</p>
<p>And he’s… tried to tell himself that there’s trust and faith and maybe even a touch of divine foresight to play here.  That Joseph truly <i>believes</i> that one of them can accomplish the impossible, that he’s <i>not</i> just living in denial that he’ll have any siblings left when the false-Deputy yields as The Voice supposedly claims he will.</p>
<p>He hasn’t had a whole lot of success believing it.</p>
<p>And it… it <i>hurts</i>, honestly.  Makes him feel <i>sick</i>.  Makes him want to grab John and hide him somewhere safe before Joseph can be fully convinced to yield their baby brother as a sacrifice.</p>
<p>It <i><b>really</b></i> makes him want to <i><b>end</b></i> the threat before he’s forced to choose between his brothers.</p>
<p>But –</p>
<p>Jacob’s fingers twitch, itching for a blade or a gun or <i>anything</i> as he stares into the hollow eyes (at once like a doll and like a hungry beast) of ‘The Deputy.’</p>
<p>But Joseph’s <i>commanded</i> him – <i>Thou Shalt <b>Not</b> Kill.</i></p>
<p>And so Jacob… <i>can’t</i>.</p>
<p>At least not <i>directly</i>.</p>
<p>‘The Deputy’ (<i>And <b>honestly</b>, fine if John and Faith and most of the damn county don’t fully get it, didn’t see it for too long, but how in the <b>hell</b> did a career lawman like <b>Whitehorse</b> fail to notice the cuckoo in his own damn nest?!</i>) has been in his cage for quite some time now, and Jacob’s made <i>damn</i> sure he hasn’t had <i>anything</i> to consume the whole while – longer by <i>days</i> than he’s <i>ever</i> deprived an initiate.</p>
<p>He just hopes it’s <i>enough</i>.</p>
<p>(It won’t be)</p>
<p>Jacob has to hope that <i>this time</i> when he throws the other into the trials he’ll be too slow, too <i>weak</i>, that one of the other prisoners or one of the Chosen will <i>handle it</i> and save Jacob’s brothers without Jacob – <i>technically</i> – violating The Father’s orders.</p>
<p>(It won’t happen)</p>
<p>He <i>has</i> to <i><b>hope</b></i>.</p>
<p>(He knows better)</p>
<p>And, with that faint strand of hope quavering in his heart, he pulls out the music box.</p>
<p>It’s barely touched the air before the <i>laughter</i> starts.</p>
<p>Jacob slows (<i>doesn’t</i> freeze, <i>won’t</i>), aware of how everyone else who hears the sound flinches away from it, his eyes narrowing as he stares through the bars.</p>
<p>Against the far wall ‘The Deputy’ holds his gaze, lips pulled into a smile as sweet as anti-freeze as he laughs prettily through a bone dry mouth.</p>
<p>“This again?  <i>Really</i>?”  The gravel-and-dry-leaves quality of the voice does <i>nothing</i> to disguise the cold amusement and vague incredulity.  Nor does the teasing tilt of the head and the way the gray-blue eyes drift (coquettish and predatory beneath long dark lashes) from Jacob’s eyes, down to the music box, and back up again.  “Because it’s worked out <i>so <b>well</b></i> for you in the past.”</p>
<p>And there’s any number of responses to that – ways to shut down the blatant rebellion and reestablish his control (in the eyes of all the <i>others</i>, at least); best of all being to <i>ignore</i> the taunt and just play the music (and <i>pray</i> that this time it’ll fucking <i>work</i>).</p>
<p>He doesn’t get to use any of them.</p>
<p>He’s about to, ready to, his hand is on the damn key and –</p>
<p>‘The Deputy’ moves, rises, <i>stands up</i> – all in one fluid, <i>effortless</i> motion that he <i>should not be <b>capable</b></i> of making.</p>
<p>And this time Jacob <i>does</i> freeze.</p>
<p>Just for a moment.</p>
<p>Which, as it turns out, is all the time ‘The Deputy’ needs.</p>
<p>He moves across the cage – in theory no great feat, given how small it is, but in practice <i>implausible</i> for how <i>easily</i> he does it.  His gait is smooth, even, no sign of strain or struggle as he walks (stalks, <i>prowls</i>) up to the bars.  And Jacob’s first thought is that someone’s <i>fucked up</i>, <i><b>is</b></i> fucked for their disobedience… except he can <i>see</i> that didn’t happen – he sees the painful gauntness and too sharp lines of starvation, sees the shriveling and cracks of dehydration, sees the sickly pallor and blackened patches from the sleep ‘The Deputy’ has been denied.  Jacob can <i>see</i>, on every <i>inch</i> of ‘The Deputy’ that his orders have been carried out.</p>
<p>And yet…</p>
<p>The younger man’s reached the bars, smile still in place and every atom conveying a condescending mixture of boredom and amusement, and when he leans forward (arms snaking languidly through the bars, draping himself indolently over them, head resting lazily so he can look up into Jacob’s eyes without any effort) Pratt <i>recoils</i>, Jacob’s well-broken bitch flinching and whimpering away from the superior predator (that was once, in <i>theory</i>, his own coworker), and just this once Jacob can’t fault him.</p>
<p>If things had been quiet before they’re grave-silent now – Faithful and Heretics alike drawing back in terror from the beast in their midst.</p>
<p>Only Jacob remains untouched by that primal fear.</p>
<p>(Outwardly, at least)</p>
<p>He stares back, eyes narrowed and lip curled, <i>refuses</i> to let the monster in man’s clothing reach him.</p>
<p>“Cute,” he hears himself say, far more even and amused than he feels.  “Really.”</p>
<p>And, amidst enough held breath that he can <i>feel</i> it, Jacob leans <i>in</i> towards the other – a smile of wolf’s teeth playing over his face as he does.  “But pointless.”  He steps in, close enough to taste the beast’s scent, and stares down into its empty eyes.  “You can fight this.  Fight me.  Play the big man all you want… but in the end?”  The bars beneath his forehead are cold as the grave as he stares directly into those dead eyes.  “You <i>will</i> surrender yourself to Joseph.”</p>
<p><i>That</i>, at least, Jacob <i>does</i> believe.</p>
<p>Just not that anyone but Joseph’s likely to <i>see</i> it.</p>
<p>But that doesn’t matter, now does it?</p>
<p>And so Jacob smiles down at the caged ‘Deputy’ and lifts his hand to the music box that’s yet to properly work and –</p>
<p>‘The Deputy’ moves.</p>
<p>It’s too sudden, too damn <i>fast</i> for Jacob to react – nearly too fast to <i>see</i>.  One moment ‘The Deputy’ is draped over the cage, arms looped through the bars up by his face, the next –</p>
<p>There’s a flurry behind him – gasps and shouts as his Chosen react too late.</p>
<p>Jacob himself doesn’t so much as twitch.  Just keeps staring down into those gray-blue eyes – the impossible depths of them suddenly overflowing with fever-bright <i>hunger</i>.</p>
<p>‘The Deputy’ isn’t smiling anymore, all the expression he’d had now channeled into his eyes and leaving his face (young and fine featured and <i>pretty</i>, even withered as Jacob’s made it) doll-like in its emptiness.</p>
<p>Not that that’s the noteworthy thing at the moment.</p>
<p>Not when he’s holding Jacob’s own knife against his throat.</p>
<p>The world holds for a moment – frozen in place as no one dares or cares to breathe.</p>
<p>And then, the moonlight peering from behind the clouds to flit over them (shining off ‘The Deputy’s’ frost-pale skin, sinking into his tangled dark hair, <i>burning</i> in his killer’s eyes and gleaming off the blade), the young man…</p>
<p>Smiles.</p>
<p>And he’s moving again – slowly, sinuously, the lazy shift of a predator that has all the time in the world to <i>play</i> – the hand <i>not</i> holding Jacob at knife-point drifting dreamily to stroke long, lethal fingers over the hand holding the music box.</p>
<p>Jacob can see it moving, even as he keeps their eyes locked – the moonlight seeming to almost <i>absorb</i> into the tattoo that crawls from the tips of his fingers all the way up his throat and over his torso, the black lines appearing to twist and writhe like snakes inside his fair skin.</p>
<p>It’s insane… but for just a moment Jacob thinks he sees that liquid black try to spread from the other man’s skin and onto his own, even as it blooms inside his swollen pupils to spread across his burning eyes – ink, ichor, pitch black <i>blood</i> in the water – </p>
<p>He blinks – slow and deliberate – and the eyes are gray-blue pits of hunger again.</p>
<p>‘The Deputy’ moves again, slowly pushing up onto the balls of his feet to come nearer Jacob’s eyelevel and tilting his head a little to the side as he rests it on the bars, the blade against Jacob’s pulse not so much as trembling as he moves.</p>
<p>“Hey, soldier boy…”</p>
<p>The voice, cracked and torn and dry as it is, comes out in a velvet purr, curling around Jacob like a serpent, like the legs of a spider, like an undertow catching him and pulling him deeper and deeper into the empty ocean of ‘The Deputy’s’ eyes.</p>
<p>Jacob doesn’t respond.  Doesn’t move.  Doesn’t do anything but stare into that bottomless abyss.</p>
<p><i>This was a mistake,</i> he thinks.  <i>I should have killed him.</i></p>
<p>And he’s…</p>
<p>Afraid.</p>
<p>And ‘The Deputy’ knows.</p>
<p>Cracked and bloody lips curl further into the dreamily sweet smile, the still beautiful face coming closer to his own as he stretches just a bit further, so there’s breath brushing against his lower lip as the exquisite monster sighs.</p>
<p>“Did I ever tell you…” tattooed fingers dance down his skin, brushing over the surface of the music box to close around Jacob’s fingers (cold where they’re clutching the key), as Jacob is swallowed down by those gray-blue eyes, “what the <i>definition</i>… of <i>insanity</i> is?”</p>
<p>‘The Deputy’ smiles at him.</p>
<p>And turns the key.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Chapter Warnings:  Offscreen Torture (Starvation/Dehydration/Sleep Deprivation), Implied Brainwashing, General Creepiness/Instability, Jacob Seed, and Jason Brody.<br/><span class="small">(Wait, that's it?  It's Jacob and Jason - <i>how</i> did this chapter end up with so few warnings?!)</span></p>
<p>
  <i>In which The Warrior of The Rook Islands comes to play, and Herald Jacob finds that he <b>isn't</b> the scariest thing in the woods.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Or, in which Jason "Professional Far Cry Protagonist" Brody is Hope County's newest Deputy (just don't look too closely at that paperwork there) and Jacob Seed <b>immediately</b> starts panic!hammering the "Go the F*** Back" button.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i><b>Or...</b>  Sorry Jacob - <b>You can't break what's already broken.</b></i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>I had fun with this one.  And <b>not</b> just because I kept imagining their <b>first</b> encounter (back when Jacob still had hope that he might be able to turn the tables with some brainwashing), where Jacob was running his Wolf! slide-shows and giving his "Civilization makes people weak/Grow strong through war and bloodshed/Cull the weak and become Strong(tm)/You are <b>nothing</b> without me" speech... and Jason "I went to The Rook Islands and got this kickass magic tattau which kinda ate my soul/humanity, a body count that probably qualifies me as a natural disaster/act of (a) god, and a <b>whoooooole</b> lotta trauma" Brody is sitting there, strapped to a chair, listening... and then suddenly just turns to Staci, <b>smiling</b>, "I'm about to end this man's whole career."  But, y'know, also not <b>not</b> because of that.  XD</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Well, hope y'all enjoyed this one, and see you next week!</i>
</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. The Tigress and The Huntress</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <i>Surprise Ship ahoy!!!</i>
</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Amita’s barely a third of the way through her drink (something cloyingly sweet with an inane name) when a bottle sets down on the counter beside her.</p><p>This…  <i>wouldn't</i> be particularly astounding, honestly (and that’s not pride or anything, Amita’s just <i>aware</i> of her appearance… and has been putting up with unwanted advances since she first set foot in the United States).</p><p><i>Except</i> for the fact that the hand attached to <i>this</i> particular bottle belongs to a <i><b>woman</b></i>.</p><p>It is for this reason (and this reason <i>only</i>) that – instead of ignoring the intrusion or threatening extreme violence – she ultimately takes a deep breath, sets her glass down on the counter, and turns to stare levelly upwards at the intruder on her solitude.</p><p>And then (after <i>just</i> a moment’s perusal – she is, after all, only <i>human</i>) she lifts her head so she can stare upwards a little <i>more</i>, because they really <i>do</i> grow them tall in America, don’t they.</p><p>Tall and… other things.</p><p>Apparently.</p><p>Which…</p><p>Sighing a little, she meets the incredibly bright green eyes (a touch too open and exuberant for her preference) evenly, the process assisted by her brain’s inability to decide if she’s more annoyed or confused by the interruption.  “Can I help you?”</p><p>The American woman grins back, only a wry tic of her eyebrow letting on that she’s caught the edge in Amita’s voice.  “Oh I dearly hope so,” the words (bright and chirpy enough to make Amita’s eyes narrow instinctively) are accompanied by a vaguely rueful headshake, and the younger woman leans back indolently against the counter.  “See, my friend –” a thumb jerks in the general direction the interloper had appeared from, “– thinks you’re <i>crazy</i> pretty, but she’s being all weird and… honestly?”  She leans forward, confidingly, her bright expression dimming a little with wry exasperation, “There is <i>so much</i> unresolved sexual tension banging around our world – or, well, <i>not</i> banging, as is the problem – that I’m just… <i>not</i> up for letting this play itself out naturally.  So!” And in a <i>flash</i> the young woman perks back up, her grin ratcheting up to almost blinding levels.  “I figured why the hell not, I’ll cut the Gordian knot and save everyone some embarrassing – if not hilarious – flailing hijinks.”</p><p>Slowly, mind cycling through the torrent of words that had just come pouring her way, Amita blinks up into the radiant (and <i>deeply</i> amused) face of the young American.  Then, after a moment, she <i>finally</i> follows the line indicated seconds earlier by the gesturing thumb.</p><p>At the presumable end of the line is a table – one chair pushed back and empty, the others occupied by a collection of women of varying ages, appearances, and levels of mirth, all of whom are staring over in the direction of Amita and their chirpy red-haired friend with equally varying levels of subterfuge.</p><p>All but <i>one</i> of them, anyway.</p><p>“To clarify,” Amita says at last, shifting her gaze to stare flatly upwards.  “You came over here to… set me up with your friend?  In a presumably amorous way?”</p><p>“Well, I mean,” the grin goes up a few watts to become positively <i>sunny</i>, and the grinner tosses her head with a lazy shrug, “if I can move things along that quickly I wouldn’t be <i>adverse</i> to it.”</p><p>“Right.”  Biting down on a sigh, Amita’s gaze drifts back to the table.  “And I gather the friend in question is the young woman over there who is attempting to hide her face in her hands and…” she squints her eyes a little as she peers more intently, “and who appears to be hitting her head repeatedly against the table.”</p><p>The American at her elbow doesn’t even bother looking over – just shakes her head and laughs.  “Like I said, she’s being weird.”</p><p>Slowly, Amita drifts her gaze back upwards.</p><p>There’s a few seconds of pointed staring before the redhead finally reacts – ducking her head, heaving a sigh, and looking the <i>bare minimum</i> of abashed.  “Right, so… this is totally out there, I <i>get</i> it, but I figured it couldn’t hurt to come over and just <i>check</i>, right?  And, if it turns out you’re not into girls or just not interested then…” she shrugs, meaningfully, “issue settled and we get to move on with Ladies’ Night.  But if you <i>were</i> inclined to be interested…” there’s a meaningful pause here, accompanied by a sunshiny (and meaningful) smile.</p><p>Amita stares back, flatly.</p><p>Undeterred, the girl just shrugs again.  “Well, then…”  And then she frowns, suddenly; head cocking to one side as a fault in her plan appears to occur.  “Ah… fuck.  I don’t know.”  And <i>then</i> the frown <i>vanishes</i>, just as quickly as it had appeared, and the young woman grins back at her with a wink.  “Guess I just go over and needle her until she belts up and makes a move.  Unless…” the smile goes a little sly, “<i>you</i> felt like making the first –”</p><p>“Ok, game’s over, you’re <i>done</i>, go sit your ass back down.”</p><p>Amita… <i>jumps</i>.</p><p>Literally, actually, she <i>jumps</i> – with <i>surprise</i>, even – as another young woman (somewhere between Amita and the redhead in age) appears suddenly and without any warning to grab the still grinning woman by the elbow.  “Was… was she bothering you?”  From below a (rather shaggy) mane of dark hair and above furiously blushing cheeks, a pair of green-blue eyes flit nervously to Amita’s face… and then immediate move <i>away</i>; the owner of those eyes continuing to stammer as she pulls fruitlessly on the arm of the now <i>overwhelmingly</i> amused redhead.  “I’m sorry, she does that, she’s an idiot, and drunk – she’s an idiot drunk, we’ll… we’ll leave you alone now, again I’m so sorry –”</p><p>And Amita rather suspects things might easily go on this way – the dark haired woman stammering and stuttering and apologizing repeatedly for her idiot drunk friend until the bar closes; but, with a side-glance and a wink, the redhead suddenly pushes off the bar counter, moves… and more or less spins the other woman up against the bar – <i>very</i> nearly into Amita’s <i>lap</i>.  Which…</p><p>And then, as the newcomer stares – bewildered – at the space she’d only just been occupying, the redhead bounces on her heels a little and – grinning even more brightly (somehow) – shoots them both another wink.</p><p>And <i>finger-guns</i>.</p><p>“Right, well, <i>you two</i> play nice,” her head tosses in time with a tasteful eyebrow waggle (<i>How is that even…</i>).  “<i>I</i> am going to get back to enjoying my one night free of relationship drama!”  And then she’s leaning in towards Amita, one hand raised to pseudo-cover her mouth as she whispers theatrically, “Don’t let the grumpiness fool you she’s actually really nice, seriously, ten-outta-<i>ten</i> kind of gal, she’s <i>amazing</i>.”</p><p>And then, with <i>yet another</i> wink and two thumbs up, the madwoman pirouettes away and almost <i>literally</i> skips back to her table.</p><p>And… for a moment… all Amita can do is stare after her – <i>stunned</i>.</p><p>Eventually though she blinks herself free of… all that, and turns to the young woman who’s still reeling against the bar counter.</p><p>“Well.”  She says at last.  “Your friend is… <i>interesting</i>.”</p><p>Face buried (once again) in her hands, the other woman’s voice is a muffled cry of long-suffering despair.  “She’s the fucking <i><b>worst</b></i>.”</p><p>Amita chuckles at that, a little caught off guard by the warmth of the sound (not to mention the warmth that’s humming gently inside her) but nonetheless she keeps her expression easy (and <i>unblushing</i>) when the other woman slowly lifts her head to glance (<i>definitely</i> blushing) up at Amita, and –</p><p>Well…</p><p>“I didn’t want to say anything…”  Giving in to impulse, Amita raises one eyebrow at the younger woman – and, judging by the smile that tugs at <i>her</i> lips, it seems that her words are being taken as the friendly overture that they are.  Strangely… bolstered, by that little smile, Amita shakes her head and reaches for her drink, a little huff of laughter leaving her.  “Really though, I feel your pain – I have a friend or two like that.”  And then, unbidden, the glass pauses to her lips and… “Granted,” her lips tug upwards a little more and her brow arches higher, “neither of them has ever attempted to woo strange women in bars on my behalf.” </p><p>Which is certainly <i>true</i> (and then some – even <i>if</i> anyone ever managed to get Sabal into a bar it would probably only be to try and sway the patrons from their sinful indulgences and would likely end with him driving them <i>further</i> to drink, and Ajay is barely capable of exchanging two words with people he himself is attracted to).  </p><p>And yet…</p><p>And yet it seems that was not <i>quite</i> the correct thing to say.</p><p>Case in point, the other woman is flushing deeper now – but with genuine, <i>severe</i> embarrassment now; her eyes locked on the floor and her shoulders curling inward as pulls back.  “Fuck, I…  I can’t believe that…  <i>Shit.</i>”  Her head is <i>hanging</i> now, hair falling in a shielding curtain over her flushed face as she winces and stammers,  “Seriously, I am <i><b>so</b></i> sorry about this, I’ll…” her eyes flick upwards, then drop away again as she pushes off the counter, fingers working at the hem of her jacket as she starts to move.  “I’ll make sure she doesn’t bother you again, and –”</p><p>She pulling away, starting to <i>walk</i> away.</p><p>And…</p><p>“So,” Amita leans forward, cutting off the other’s stammering retreat abruptly, and tilts her head to the side while gently swirling the remains of her drink and glancing up at the younger woman from beneath her lashes.  “I am… ‘crazy pretty,’ then?”</p><p>Green-blue eyes <i>fly</i> up to meet hers, the bluish turning luminescent as her mouth works silently for several <i>long</i> moments, until…  </p><p>“Yes?”</p><p>And then she’s ducked her head again, hair sheltering her face again and the beginnings of an apology on her lips.</p><p>“<i>Good.</i>”</p><p>Amita leans forward, reaching out to brush her fingers over top of the other woman’s hand, gently holding her in place as she smiles and (once more giving in to impulse) <i>purrs</i>.  “I always prefer it when I have something in common with people, right off the bat.”</p><p>And then she locks eyes with the other woman, smiles… and waits.</p><p>It takes a moment for her words to sink in.</p><p>The <i>reaction</i> she gets is certainly worth the wait.</p><p>Physically pulling back and verbally pressing forward (no need to embarrass the poor dear more than she’s already been by paying attention to her <i>volcanic</i> blush and open-mouth staring – no matter how <i>cute</i> it is) she lifts and extends her hand politely.  “My name is Amita.”</p><p>There’s a moment of staring – the (quite lovely) mouth working silently as the younger woman just <i>stares</i> at her.  Then, all at once, she very nearly <i>yelps</i> “Jess,” with a slightly quavering voice, and a surprisingly strong and calloused hand reaches out to grasp hers like a lifeline.</p><p>“Jess…”  Amita purrs the name (just a <i>little</i>) and finds that she <i>quite</i> enjoys the way the other shivers a little at the sound.  And then – because <i>why not</i> – she foregoes shaking and lifts the delightfully roughened hand to her lips.  “It is a <i>pleasure</i> to meet you.”</p><p>And, for a moment, Amita is <i>truly</i> able to enjoy the wide-eyed look of <i>awe</i> directed her way.</p><p>Just for a moment, though.  </p><p>She watches, time slowing a little around them, as Jess’ expression starts to fall – her eyes going a little hard and a little sad and quite a bit wounded, her skin going a little pale and ashy beneath her continued flush, and her head tilting down and to the side a bit as her shoulders start to curl in again –</p><p>And Amita simply <i>won’t</i> have that.</p><p>Especially not when she can clearly see how Jess is moving in such a way that <i>deliberately</i> shifts the more heavily scarred side of her face <i>away</i> from Amita.</p><p>She moves – possibly the alcohol emboldening her, but more likely the little flare of warmth that’s been growing steadily inside since the intriguing young woman walked over to her; reaching out to place a gentle finger on the other woman’s chin, <i>just</i> off center, and then <i>very deliberately</i> exerts just enough pressure to turn the other woman back towards her.</p><p>And then, because in the words of the mad redhead, <i>why the hell <b>not</b></i> (she’s probably already broken <i>plenty</i> of boundaries and social norms), Amita eases her palm over the scarred side of Jess’ face and <i>smiles</i> up at her.  “I don’t suppose,” she murmurs, indulging herself even more and letting her fingertips shiver a little over the defined jawline beneath them, “you would care to join me, Jess?  Perhaps get to know each other a little better?”</p><p>Jess… freezes.</p><p>Just for a moment.</p><p>Just for as long as it takes her to look deeply into Amita’s eyes and realize that she’s being fully, completely, absolutely <i>genuine</i>.</p><p>At which point her jaw <i>drops</i>, the blush flooding her entire face and her eyes (bright and beautiful and simultaneously frightfully bewildered and desperately hopeful) start to shimmer a little and –</p><p>And that’s when the <i>sound</i> reaches them.</p><p>Blinking her way out of the moment – and very aware of Jess doing the same – Amita finds herself looking in the direction of the sound, wondering whether it’s <i>normal</i> for animal sacrifices to take place in American bars and –</p><p>And then, in the same instant, their eyes land on <i>The Table</i>.</p><p>One of the women there – presumably the source of the high-pitched squealing that interrupted their moment – has both hands clasped over her mouth and is in the process of kicking her feet like an excited child.  And <i>she’s</i> somehow not the <i>least</i> subtle member of the group.  Which… well, <i>most</i> of them are just waving cheerily or <i>applauding</i> (having only started when Amita and Jess looked their way), but the mad redhead from before is standing – one leg planted on her chair for a little extra lift – with both arms fully extended above her head to give them double-thumps-up, another is pumping one fist above her head, and a third is making highly-visible and <i>wildly</i> obscene hand gestures at them.</p><p><i>At least,</i> Amita thinks, <i>they’re not <b>cheering</b>.</i></p><p>
  <i>Yet.</i>
</p><p>Her eyes shift back to Jess, who spends an extra second staring balefully at the jubilant crowd before – with a <i>long</i>, tensely controlled <i>sigh</i> – she finally turns to Amita with a surprisingly easy smile.  “Say Amita?”  She swallows a little (the only sign of hesitation on her otherwise confident countenance), then tosses a flippant nod towards the bar’s entrance.  “How’d you like to go and get to know each other a little better somewhere my horrible friends <i>aren’t</i>?”</p><p>Another laugh slips from her lips – a warm sound that makes her chest flutter slightly when Jess blushes (<i>again</i>, she does it so easily – and <i>beautifully</i>) and smiles at her a little softer.</p><p>“I think,” smiling back, Amita rises to her feet, pulling out her wallet to deposit a few American bills on counter by her unfinished drink, “that’s the best idea I’ve heard all day.”</p><p>And then, with a smile that’s equal parts warm and sly, Amita turns to Jess and offers the younger woman her arm.</p><p>The stunned blush, followed by the <i>delighted</i> smile and strong (if still shy) arm that slips into hers, makes the <i>explosion</i> of cheering and applause actually bearable.</p><p>Not to such an extent that – as they move towards the door – she doesn’t laugh again when Jess flips her middle finger at the celebrating table.</p><p>And then they’ve stepped outside the bar, the chill weather from earlier giving way to a gentle fall of snow as they start to make their way down the street, Jess’ smile bright beneath the streetlights as she shifts a little closer against Amita’s side.</p><p>All in all – she thinks, watching as the light dances over Jess’ hair and catches in her bright eyes as she looks up at Amita and <i>smiles</i> at her – the evening... scratch that, the entire <i>trip</i> is <i>without a <b>doubt</b></i> shaping up to be <i>infinitely</i> more enjoyable than she’d anticipated.</p><p>And who knows... maybe Amita may just extend her visit to America.  She does, after all, have quite a few vacation days due.</p><p>And, right now?  Walking through the autumn chill, beneath the snow and stars and streetlights, with Jess' arm in hers and <i>that <b>smile</b></i> cast her way from beneath <i>those <b>eyes</b></i>?</p><p>Well... strange as it seems... she finds the idea of spending some personal time in Montana just... <i>beautiful</i>.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Chapter Warnings:  NONE!  :D</p><p>
  <i>In which a chance meeting kindles a new flame of hope and joy in a world that's a little softer and kinder.</i>
</p><p>
  <i><b>OR</b>, in which we've got us a No-Cult!AU/No-Kyrati-Civil-War!AU where nobody dies, everybody lives, and Jess still has her scars (physical and some mental/emotional) but who cares because Amita thinks she's crazy pretty too.  Surprise shipping, <b>whooooo!</b>  Featuring Ultimate-Wingman!Robin Baird and the Hope County Spirit Squad.</i>
  <br/>
  <span class="small">
    <i>(Nadine Abercrombie was the one squealing, Skylar Kohrs was the one pumping her fist, and I leave it to you to decide who amongst Kim, Grace, Joey, Tracey, and Adelaide was making filthy gestures - Mary May, sadly, had to work, and would later be Very Put Out that she missed everything).</i>
  </span>
</p><p><i>So, just a little background that I kinda wanted to work into the chapter but couldn't really find a natural place for it - this takes place in an AU where Ishwari got fed up with Kyrat a little earlier, grabbed Pagan and their kids, and f'd off to America; Kyrat still had some rough years until someone *coughcoughDarpancoughcough* finally got wise and chucked Mohan off a cliff, and then a few more rough years happened as everyone tried to figure out what the hell to do with the place.  Fastforward to modern day - Kyrat's making a global name for itself by revolutionizing pharmaceuticals, and company CEO Amita [No Canonical Surname] finds herself in Missoula, Montana (alongside her bff Ajay "My Parents are Kyrat's Biggest Financial Backers/Silent Partners but We Don't Admit that Out Loud so just Pretend I'm a normal PA or Something, Ok?" Min <span class="small"> - Sabal was too busy helping run the country to come, he will be Very Put Out later</span>) after finalizing a deal with a local 100% benevolent (no, actually, for really reals, they've never even kidnapped or tortured or murdered <b>anyone</b>) co-op for access to their miracle flowers.  And the rest, as they say, is - or <b>will be</b> history.</i> </p><p><i>Welp, hope y'all enjoyed this one, and I'll see you next week!  Until then remember - you are awesome and beautiful and a solid 10/10, so be safe and well because the world is a better place with you in it!</i>  ^x^/ &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. The Father and The Prince</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The air changes with the sound of helicopter blades – the long brewing tension sharpening to a razor point.</p>
<p>The ensuing wait lasts for only a few minutes, but those minutes are more than enough to drive the Faithful to a fever pitch, to fill the Heralds with hungry anticipation, and to stoke the fires within the Father’s heart and soul.</p>
<p>He can feel it – the hour of The Reaping <i>finally</i> approaching.</p>
<p>And it is all Joseph can do to contain his joy.</p>
<p>At long last the doors of his church are thrown open, a petty act of mindless disrespect from the invading heretics who seek to separate him from his children, to steal his liberty and hinder his divine mission.</p>
<p>He might feel anger towards them, as his children and his siblings do… if he didn’t <i>pity</i> them – lost and misguided wretches that they are – so profoundly.</p>
<p>And, in truth… it helps that he <i>knows</i> they will repent their disrespect, with sorrowful hearts and on bended knee. </p>
<p>Eventually.</p>
<p>It is, consequently, not difficult for him to simply watch their approach with eyes steady as his heart as he continues to deliver his sermon.</p>
<p>He sees Whitehorse – a good, honorable man for all his misplaced loyalties, with whom Joseph has no quarrel and who (he is certain) will be a <i>valuable</i> addition to the flock.</p>
<p>He sees Marshal Burke – a stranger, albeit one Joseph feels he has the measure of (easily, at that); bluster and <i>Pride</i> driving the man where he should not go, emptiness and longing already preparing him for deliverance.</p>
<p>The third he sees… is a surprise.</p>
<p>Because the one walking into his sanctuary alongside the elder invaders is <i>not</i> the new rookie deputy, as he had expected; but, rather, it is the <i>other</i> United States Marshal.</p>
<p>For a moment Joseph feels… something.  A shift, not unlike a sudden change in air pressure, as he stares at the young man walking in place of the woman he had expected.</p>
<p>And then the shift completes itself, settles firmly into place, and a wave of peace sweeps over him as he accepts the presence of The Harbinger of The Collapse.</p>
<p>The <i>Hell</i> of which he was warned.</p>
<p>The Lamb he has been promised.</p>
<p>The Man who will decide the fate of all Joseph loves.</p>
<p>Honestly… Joseph <i>really <b>had</b></i> expected him to be taller.</p>
<p>The man (near enough to John’s age that most would be less inclined to call “young,” and likewise near enough that Joseph can’t help but think “child”) walks through the church with even, measured steps, the lines of his body seeming strangely relaxed as he moves.  He holds neither the Marshal’s oblivious confidence, nor Whitehorse’s knowing tension.  Rather… rather he moves like one who fully <i>understands</i> the danger into which he is walking, but who has simply determined to <i>accept</i> it rather than <i>fear</i> it.</p>
<p>Strangely, Joseph finds himself… <i>enchanted</i> by the approaching Harbinger’s demeanor, even as he can sense Jacob tense with suspicion and alarm behind him (and John tense as well, almost certainly for <i>different</i> reasons that Joseph will likely be forced to speak with him about later).</p>
<p>Moments pass as the men make their way to him, their progress slowed and halted momentarily before Joseph sends his children out to prepare.</p>
<p>And then, at last, <i>The Moment</i> arrives.</p>
<p>“Alright,” Burke snarls, sneers, bravado betraying his small emptiness as he looks down on the man he’s slowly flinching away from.  “Cuff this son of a bitch.”</p>
<p>It’s nearly <i>laughable</i>.</p>
<p>As is the expression on the younger marshal’s face – a muted play of exasperation, disbelief, and pain – as though he cannot fully bring himself to comprehend the enormity of his superior’s Prideful ineptitude and obliviousness.  The expression barely fades as he glances towards the sheriff, clearly seeking some form of support and receiving only the old man’s frozen concern and apprehension.</p>
<p>When (after a <i>second</i> barked order from the foolhardy marshal) the young man looks back at Joseph with such an <i>exceptionally</i> long suffering look… honestly it’s all he can do not to <i>smile</i> at the increasingly endearing boy before him.</p>
<p>And yet…</p>
<p><i>This boy may be my enemy before he becomes my child,</i> he reminds himself; and, when hands holding cuffs reach for him, Joseph’s tone is solemn as befits a Father’s warning.</p>
<p>“God will not let you take me.”</p>
<p>And here he might’ve expected derision – a scoff, a sneer, a fool’s dismissal as Burke shows.  Or perhaps fear – a flinch, a shiver, a growing sense of dread like what he sees in Whitehorse’s eyes.</p>
<p>What he does <i>not</i> expect is for the marshal to freeze, eyes slowly lifting to stare (flatly and evenly) into his… and then for the young man to <i><b>sigh</b></i> – a sound, an expression, an <i>embodiment</i> of weariness and anticipation and <i><b>resignation</b></i>.</p>
<p>“Well,” the young man’s voice – so utterly unexpected that all but the two of them briefly flinch at its sounding – is dry and even as seems humanly possible, and his hands are perfectly still as they position the cuffs around Joseph’s wrists.  “I guess he’ll just have to take that up with <i>my</i> gods, and we’ll see how things shake out down here at the bottom of the hill.”</p>
<p>The handcuffs click into place against this skin, and for the first time Joseph feels his eyes narrow as a lash of true <i>anger</i> strikes him.</p>
<p><i>So then,</i> he thinks, cold fury burning in his chest at the blasphemy as he is taken by the shoulder and guided towards The Reaping, <i>a <b>pagan</b> as well as a heretic.</i></p>
<p>Then, as they pass through the doors of his church, Joseph takes a steadying breath as the night air sweeps over him.   <i>You... poor, foolish... <b>lost</b> child.</i>  He resists the urge to shake his head sadly, the sorrow that wells inside him calming his flare of temper, righteous fury bleeding slowly away as they move through the compound.  <i>I will have more of a fight to save you than I thought.</i></p>
<p>Almost in the same moment he feels a presence upon him, the gentle mantle of The Voice settling over his shoulders and making known its approval at his resolve, and Joseph’s lips lift in a smile.</p>
<p>Pagan or no, it is of no consequence.  The lost lamb now with him was <i>always</i> bound for Atonement before he was to be welcomed into the flock – all his heresy means is that his Atonement will now be… <i>more</i>.</p>
<p>Joseph nods slightly to himself as they reach the helicopter, peace and determination easing the last vestiges of discontent from his heart.  The boy has been <i>fated</i> to join their family in Eden, has been <i>promised</i> to Joseph, and no sins or obstacles will stand in the way of that.</p>
<p>The Voice has chosen the young marshal, <i>wants</i> him (with a hunger Joseph senses to be all the more intense for his blasphemous idolatry), and Joseph <b>will</b> guide and shepherd him to where he belongs.</p>
<p>Let the child claim allegiance to whatever false gods he wishes.</p>
<p>Joseph <i>will</i> deliver Ajay Ghale to salvation.</p>
<p>It is only a matter of time.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Chapter Warnings:  Joseph Seed's creepy possessive behavior.</p>
<p>
  <i>In which a very different Harbinger of The Collapse comes to town, and the more things change the more they stay the same.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Or, in which Ajay (who became a US Marshal post-Kyrat - don't ask how, he's still a little confused about it too) walks into a church and <b>immediately</b> starts screaming internally because <b>"SERIOUSLY?!  AGAIN?!?!?!"</b>  And then he immediately moves on to sighing in resignation internally, because "Yeah, alright, fine, this just <b>figures</b>.  Gee, I wonder who's going to be inappropriately familiar with me <b>this</b> time.  And <b>boy</b> I sure can't <b>wait</b> to get betrayed by my allies again!  Seriously, f*** my life.  At least there's no honey badgers in Montana..."  The leadership of Eden's Gate proceed to be <b>very</b> thrown (and a little bit <b>concerned</b>) by how resigned their Adversary is (and... kind of terrified/turned-on by how <b>good</b> he is at the whole Far Cry Protagonist thing - it's almost like he's done this before...), the people of Hope County are a little bewildered (and just a bit hurt?) by how suspicious The Marshal is of them all, Hurk Drubman Jr. is <b>thrilled</b> to be back on the road with his tat-bro again, and Junior Deputy Robin Baird (who got left behind at the precinct with Fucking Nancy and was <b>furious</b> about it even <b>before</b> betrayal happened and the dispatcher tried to help a bunch of cultists kidnap her) is no less The Angel of Death as a Gun for Hire than she would've been as Joseph's prophesized Lamb.</i>
  <br/>
  <i>
    <span class="small">Being a Gun for Hire will <b>not</b> protect Robin from Bad Touching, it's just that with Ajay around the Seeds have <b>two</b> targets for it now.  Ajay and Robin are Very Put Out about it and spend a lot of time commiserating with each other, which... doesn't <b>really</b> make it better, but at least they've got the outlet.  Odds that Jacob and John will end up flipping a coin to decide which of them gets which law enforcement officer are <b>high</b>.  (Odds that neither brother will care about the coin flip results and keep on trying to court/seduce/wear-down <b>both</b> LEOs are <b>higher</b>.)</span>
  </i>
  <br/>
  <i>
    <span class="small">Meanwhile, somewhere in [LOCATION], Pagan Min wakes up in a cold sweat/fury because he's sensed that someone is trying to forcibly adopt his son, and that's just <b>not on</b>.</span>
  </i>
</p>
<p><i>Welp, hope y'all liked this one - and, even more importantly, I hope y'all are <b>doing</b> well!  Stay safe, sane, and lovely, my lovelies; and I'll see you next week!</i>  ^x^/ &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. The King and The Rook</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <span class="small">
    <i>Don’t mind me… I’m just over here, loving Pagan Min <b>far</b> more than I probably should.  XD</i>
  </span>
</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>So here’s the thing… Robin’s… not <i>trying</i> to be the Great American Action Hero or anything – come rolling up in “far-flung-parts” to save the day for Uncle Sam and the red-white-and-blue while a hard rock cover of Star Spangled Banner plays and bald eagles soar.  No.  Just… just no.  Not what she’s trying to do.  It’s just that… that this kind of shit <i>keeps <b>happening</b></i>; which is <i>not</i> her fault, so –</p>
<p>Robin ducks a violently flung chair, then <i>grabs</i> that chair and “no-yous” back it into the face of the guy who’d thrown it at her, then ducks <i>again</i> as one of his friends swings a <i>fucking <b>meat cleaver</b></i> at her face.</p>
<p>“Meddling <i>American <b>bitch</b></i>!”</p>
<p>Leaping back from the wildly slashing blade (and the spray of uncomfortably yellow-tinted saliva, <i><b>ew</b></i>), Robin swipes an abandoned barstool up off the floor.  “Would you <i>stop it</i> with the Nationalism already?!  You’re makin’ this weird!”</p>
<p>She spins away from another shrieking lunge and brings her barstool down over the back of his head, follows that up by belting him across the face with a (now disembodied) wooden leg when he tries staggering back to his feet, then turns to get back into the fray and –</p>
<p>Another guy (mean cleaver, no; broken bottle, yes) hits the ground just a few feet from her – a <i>scream</i> tearing out from his lungs as his leg gets reoriented in a <i>decidedly</i> uncomfortable way, courtesy of Robin’s new friend.</p>
<p>“Bringing global politics into a barfight when it’s not applicable to the conflict?”  With a parting <i>wrench</i> to the unfortunate schlub’s leg, Friend throws his head back with a feral grin and casts a positively <i>savage</i> look at the still assembled (if much less confident looking) baddies.  “For <i>shame</i>, gentlemen!”</p>
<p>And then – with <i>complete</i> indifference towards the crowd of eight gnarly looking and quite well-armed thugs – he turns over his shoulder to shoot Robin a wryly questioning look.  “But we’re alright with the blatant misogyny?”</p>
<p>It’s <i>very</i> much more amused than genuinely curious, but Robin’s still fully prepared to answer – words on the tip of her tongue that, honestly, it <i>does</i> piss her off but… well, Robin just so happens to be a woman who enjoys fighting and fucking (not always in that order) and as a result she’s long since reached the point where she barely <i>notices</i> engendered insults when they’re aimed at her… only –</p>
<p>“Gun.”</p>
<p>She’s already speedballed her remaining hunk of wood at the guy pulling a handgun (<i>Is that… is that a 6P9 with <b>flames</b> pained on?  It <b>i</b>- you are holding it <b>sideways</b> too, oh you absolute cuck</i>) when Friend’s turning back to the baddies, and he <i>kicks a damn <b>table</b></i> at them so hard it <i>flies</i> into the middle of them without it even breaking his stride – the large piece of furniture reaching them just after Robin’s bit-o-barstool catches the guncuck between the eyes, nearly all of them are getting knocked over like so many tackily dressed <i>bowling pins</i> and, somewhere in the tumble, there’s a gunshot and a shriek of pain as they go head-over-jackboots and... and unless Robin’s totally mistaken the dumbass just shot one of his own buddies in the <i>ass</i>.</p>
<p>It’s quickly reaching the point that she almost feels <i>bad</i> for beating the shit out of them.</p>
<p>Not… bad enough that she doesn’t follow Friend back into the fray – charging in to Flying Knee one guy who’s still staggering at the edge of the group, while off to the side her buddy’s wrenching someone’s arm out of its usual socket and simultaneously kicking another guy’s knee fully <i>backwards</i>.</p>
<p>But still.</p>
<p><i>Almost</i>.</p>
<p>Honestly though, it’s not like they don’t <i>deserve</i> it.</p>
<p>It –</p>
<p>Well…</p>
<p>Ok, so… it’s not… <i>inaccurate</i> to say that Robin’s been known to start shit (especially barfights, and <i>especially</i> if she’s been in a… call it a <i>bad mood</i>).  <i><b>But</b></i>.  But that was <i><b>not</b></i> the case <i>this time</i>.</p>
<p>Hell, she’d actually been in a pretty good mood when she’d entered the bar (or as good as her moods got these days, anyway) and –</p>
<p>And, well, then she’d seen him; hadn’t she.</p>
<p>And what?  Was she <i>not</i> supposed to tell the classy older gentleman who was rocking the ever loving <i>fuck</i> out of a fucking pinstriped dove-gray and <i><b>rose</b></i> three-piece suit that he was the single most beautiful thing she’d seen in weeks?</p>
<p>Of <i>course</i> not.</p>
<p>And, once she’d told him, he’d just looked at her (clearly surprised by her <i>words</i> and <i><b>not</b></i> her presence at his side, which meant he’d already clocked her) and –</p>
<p>And then they’d ended up sitting together, drinking and talking music (and, while it’d become quickly apparent that he was a lost cause when it came to Country and Bluegrass - which was borderline <i>intolerable</i> from someone talking up <i>Kanye West</i> - he had some <i>fascinating</i> opinions on Classic British Rock) and…</p>
<p>And it’d just been really <i>nice</i>.</p>
<p>(<i>Hell</i>, the guy’d spent the whole time looking around the room or <i>at</i> her face and eyes – not <i>into</i> her eyes, the way people do when they’re trying to <i>force</i> a connection or very pointedly <i>not</i> ogle her various assets; <i>and</i> she’d not even gotten the <i>slightest</i> not-into-ladies vibe from him, <i><b>so</b></i>.)</p>
<p>And then (somewhere after a passionate debate about which The Clash album was best and partway through a <i>very</i> insincere apology about earlier words spoken against Johnny, Willie, Waylon, and Kris) a bunch of tackily dressed motherfuckers had come bursting into the bar – shouting and swaggering and generally interrupting everyone's evening – and it became almost immediately apparent that they’d come to take Robin’s new friend somewhere – whether he wanted to go or not – and…</p>
<p>Well.</p>
<p>Robin had rather taken exception to that.</p>
<p>And the thugs, in turn, had taken exception to her taking exception and words were exchanged and then one guy’d pulled a knife on her.</p>
<p>So Robin broke a beer bottle across his face.</p>
<p>They’d taken exception to that as well.</p>
<p>The situation rather devolved from there.</p>
<p>Case in point… Robin’s drop-suplexing guncuck into one of his buddies while Friend is <i>beating</i> another guy’s head repeatedly against the bar counter.</p>
<p>On further reflection… yeah, maybe Robin <i>does</i> feel a little bad about the fight.</p>
<p>Because deserve it or no she’s really come to think that the baddies are <i>so</i> outclassed that it’s… kind of like <i>cheating</i> for both her and Friend to be fighting them (and <i>seriously</i>, <i><b>Friend</b></i>.  Hot <i>damn</i>, Friend.  Just… Robin <i>knows</i> she’s good in a fight, but <i>hot fucking <b>damn</b></i> this classy older man in his fancy suit!  Talk about drop-kicking “spry for his age” out a window and then pile-driving it for good measure because the man is a <i>fucking <b>beast</b></i>.  Honestly, had she not picked up on his “deep-and-enduring-mourning” vibes earlier and summarily classified him as “not for sex” she would be <i><b>so</b></i> fucking turned on right now).</p>
<p>Again, she doesn’t feel bad enough to <i>stop</i> beating the collection of tackily dressed asses into the ground.</p>
<p>But still.</p>
<p>At least the fight doesn't last too long.</p>
<p>Though it’s... probably not <i>super healthy</i> that Robin’s a tad disappointed by that.</p>
<p>But –</p>
<p>She lets the last bad guy hit the ground – his fall cushioned by a few other unconscious dudes due to apathy rather than mercy – and turns to raise an eyebrow at Friend.</p>
<p>Leaning against the bar – one foot planted on a guy who’s vaguely twitching on the ground and one arm swung companionably across the back of someone half over the bar counter – her buddy’s thrown his head back and is <i>laughing</i>, the sound utterly delighted and (admittedly) delightful.  It lasts a few seconds too; long enough for Robin to kick back on one of the few standing tables, and when it finally starts to die down into chuckles he meets her gaze – eyes warm with mirth and expression <i>charmed</i>.</p>
<p>Robin crosses her arms, sighs, and – tilting her head to the side – raises her eyebrow <i>higher</i>.</p>
<p>Which just makes him chuckle <i>more</i> before he raises his own eyebrow and –</p>
<p>“‘I’m not your mother last night?’”</p>
<p>Honestly?  It takes a second.</p>
<p>And then in a rush it hits her, and Robin has to try not to blush a little, because…</p>
<p>She sighs again, throwing her head back and rolling her shoulders.  “There’s only so many responses to ‘get on your knees.’”</p>
<p>Which is definitively <i>true</i>, but it <i>still</i> sends him into a whole new fit of laughter.</p>
<p>Which…</p>
<p>Shaking her head a touch helplessly, Robin gives in and joins him laughing.</p>
<p>And it’s… really nice.</p>
<p>Somehow.</p>
<p>Probably best to not dwell on it, honestly.</p>
<p>Eventually they calm down, the laughter fading to basic grins as Friend starts raiding the bar (man after her own heart, there) and Robin starts double-checking that none of the thugs are bleeding out or asphyxiating or anything.</p>
<p>“So,” she drawls after a minute, shifting the last guy a little so his face isn’t shoved against someone’s taint (she’s nice that way) and satisfied that no one’s dying (a fucking <i>lot</i> of physical therapy and <i>probably</i> some handicap parking in their futures, but no premature deaths tonight), “no sirens yet…” she glances around as she heads to the bar – taking in a complete absence of civilians and Friend’s curious side-glance as he continues pouring drinks.  “Should <i>we</i> call the police about this, or is that just not the done thing around here?”</p>
<p>Friend… <i>stills</i> (<i><b>not</b></i> freezes) at that, a very slow and <i>very</i> contemplative glance sweeping over her.</p>
<p>And then – apparently <i>timed</i> for <i>just</i> when she’s eyeing him back and reaching for a glass – he sets down the bottle he was serving from and– <i>very</i> deliberately – leans over to lift the bar-sprawling baddy by the scruff of his tacky coat, voice drier than the Sahara as he drawls, “Help.  Police.  Help.”</p>
<p>Robin freezes, glass just at her lips, and meets his <i>profoundly</i> amused and wry expression with wide eyes.</p>
<p>There’s a vague sound escaping her, but she’s a little too preoccupied with getting tangled in her own stilted thoughts to notice – something that’s been sitting on a backburner in her mind since before the fight starting to pop and sputter as it tries to make itself known and –</p>
<p>In a rush of clarity, the impression that had first hit her <i>explodes</i> from her subconscious.</p>
<p>“Your clothes are too nice.”</p>
<p>She sets the glass down slowly, staring at the grinning man in the classy and <i>obscenely expensive</i> outfit (<i>The <b>shoes</b> alone… fuckin’ <b>a</b>, Baird; <b>no one</b> with shoes like <b>those</b> should be in a place like <b>this</b></i>), and when the gentle numbness of realization fades Robin suspects she’s going to feel <i>really</i> stupid, because, “This place is a <i>fucking dive</i> and –” the numbness fades, and Robin folds over to bury her face in her hands with a groan.  “And I’m an <i>idiot</i>.”</p>
<p>There’s a low rumble of laughter, and a deceptively gentle hand pats her (at once fond and teasing, and <i>somehow</i> bypassing condescending altogether) on the head.  “You’re <i>charming</i>, my dear.”  When she resurfaces a little – glaring up through her fingers – he’s <i>clearly</i> fighting back more laughter, eyes crinkled upwards and sparkling and everything.  And then he pulls back, patting her on the head once more as he straightens, picks up his glass, and – with a sort of quasi-apologetic shrug – winks at her.  “As it happens I had a meeting here.  Which,” he stares into his glass with a contemplative air, the practiced ease of which does <i>nothing</i> to disguise the dark shadow that’s growing in his eyes, “given the absence of my host and my sudden lack of bodyguards, alongside the surprise appearance of these fine gentlemen, I begin to suspect that said meeting was actually a trap or ambush of some – ah… <i>poorly conceived</i> sort.”</p>
<p>
  <i>That…</i>
</p>
<p>She straightens, slowly; palms pressed against the sticky dingy counter to ground her as her mind takes all <i>that</i> in and arranges it with everything that’s comes before.</p>
<p>Friend glances up from his drink and gives her a smirk-reinforced eyebrow lift.</p>
<p>A muscle twitches at the corner of Robin’s left eye.</p>
<p>And…</p>
<p>“Did I just beat up a bunch of cops alongside a local crime boss?”</p>
<p>The amused little smirk <i>grows</i> – teeth gleaming in a tiger’s grin beneath his sparking eyes.  “Well I’m not exactly <i>local</i>…”</p>
<p>For a very long moment, Robin just <i>stares</i> at him.</p>
<p>Then something inside her <i>bursts</i>.</p>
<p>Growling (and resisting the urge to <i>beat</i> her head against the bar) Robin shoves herself away from the counter, her mind selecting one small piece of the whole fucking insane affair to focus on and her hand (accordingly) flying out to point as she <i>snarls</i>.  “That one motherfucker had a <i><b>meat cleaver</b></i>.”</p>
<p>Friend, still grinning, dutifully turns to follow her emphatic gesture – his eyes gliding over to where the offending meat cleaver is lodged (with a very deliberate sense of theatricality) in the ground directly between one guy’s upper thighs.  That done, he turns back to Robin and (like a <i>dick</i>) arches his eyebrow a little higher and wryer.  “I never said they were <i>good</i> cops.”</p>
<p>
  <i>Oh for…</i>
</p>
<p>There’s another chuckle from the bar, and Robin pulls one hand away from her face to flip him off.</p>
<p>Which, obviously, just makes him laugh <i>more</i> and…</p>
<p>The laugh gradually fades into a hum, and (resisting the urge to start screaming into her hands or, increasingly <i>more</i> tempting, just go over and <i>punch</i> him) Robin looks back out into the sick and twisted world in time to see him down a second glass (<i>her</i> glass) and pour out a brand new one.</p>
<p>“Is all this going to be a <i>problem</i>…”  He fills up his own glass, swirling the cheap liquor inside like its fine wine as he cocks his head to the side and looks at her – causal and amused even as he’s sharp and searching; and when he finally finishes his thought there’s a touch of savvy certainty in his implicit request for confirmation.  “Officer?”</p>
<p>
  <i>Of… course.</i>
</p>
<p>She meets his eyes, fingers still tangled in her hair where she’d hoped the tugging might settle her, and…</p>
<p>A little gust of laughter – a little bit wry, a touch impressed, and a <i>lot</i> tender – leaves her, and Robin gives a rueful little smile as her hands drop and she shrugs one shoulder.  “Deputy,” she drawls, the title tasting like her own first name and –</p>
<p>She can’t hide a wince, not entirely, as the admission of “As was,” follows.</p>
<p>It… hurts.  Even after…</p>
<p>It does.</p>
<p>A lot.</p>
<p>And that’s probably evident because she hears the start of a potentially sympathetic sound and <i>fuck that</i>.</p>
<p>“Honestly?”  Drawling and shrugging though the lingering pain (like phantom fucking limb syndrome or something – this should be mine and it’s <i>not</i>), Robin plants a hand into one hip, waves the other at the bulk of the unconscious people, and turns to stare at Friend once more.  “If I’d’ve know they were <i>dirty cops</i> then I’d’ve probably hit them a <i>lot</i> harder.”</p>
<p>And <i>that</i> gets a bit of reaction – Friend starting and staring at her for a second, then snapping his hand abruptly before he can overfill his glass.</p>
<p>And that’d be kind of endearing… if not for the <i>look</i> he’s shooting her – a sort of baffled mirth that’s <i>totally</i> not fair, so she feels no reservations in contesting it.  “I thought they were just blue-collar rent-a-thugs or somethin’,” she waves another hand over the horde, <i>refusing</i> to flush or anything.  “I didn’t want to <i><b>Hurt</b></i> them!”</p>
<p>And she <i>hadn’t</i> (it isn’t generally the rank-and-file’s fault if their boss is a bastard, so so long as they aren’t <i>complete</i> pricks they ought to be allowed <i>some</i> quarter and shot at making up their rent or whatever) which was and is perfectly reasonable so Friend can damn well stop shaking his head and laughing like she’s the most endearingly absurd thing ever and –</p>
<p>There’s a sound outside – the roar of engines pulling up and cutting off in a shriek of brakes and squeal of tires, the slamming of doors, and the sound of many feet and voices – and abruptly Friend stops shaking his head and laughing.</p>
<p>“Well,” he says after <i>just</i> enough of a pause for the noises to start moving their way, and when Robin glances back over her shoulder he’s strolling around the bar counter with the beginnings of a tiger smile on his face and two full shot glasses in his hands.  “You may yet get your chance.”  He pulls up next to her, offering one glass with a wry twist to his smile and an elegantly arched brow, and nods towards the front doors.  “Shall we?”</p>
<p>And, for a moment, Robin just stares at the classy older gentleman with the glorious suit and tiger’s smile and bloodstained eyes.</p>
<p>Then she grabs the offered glass and knocks it back.</p>
<p>He’s <i>beaming</i> at her as she sets the empty glass down on a table, and she takes a second (between limbering back up and grabbing someone’s discarded bat – <i>Aluminum; respectable</i> – from off the ground) to shoot a <i>very</i> narrow side eye his way as they start heading for the doors.  “Just to be clear… this,” she twirls the bat to get a feel for it, then waves it demonstrably at their present circumstances, “is <i>not</i> me joining your criminal empire, by the by.”</p>
<p>There isn’t a laugh this time, but the positively <i>feral</i> grin Friend shoots her conveys that laughter anyway, and his eyes look at her all warm and fond.  “Of <i>course</i> not, dear girl.”</p>
<p>They’ve reached the door, and the almost on them clamor outside mostly swallows her warning growl, but Friend hears it anyway and – one hand on the door handle and the other slipping out from his jacket (after what looks like a moment of contemplative and evaluating hesitation) wearing a decidedly <i>brutal</i> looking knuckle duster (<i>Oh hello <b>beautiful</b></i>) – shoots her a wink.  “Of <i>course</i> not.”</p>
<p>And…</p>
<p>Robin knows she should probably be <i>very concerned</i> about the direction her evening’s taken (or, at the <i>very</i> least, be <i><b>annoyed</b></i>).</p>
<p>But…</p>
<p>“So long as we’re clear,” she drawls, lips pulling up into a wry grin as she shoots him a wink of her own and nods expectantly towards the door.</p>
<p>And, with a rather terrifying and frankly familiar (<i>homey</i>) laugh, he throws the door open and they charge outside, and Robin’s earlier concerns are soon forgotten.</p>
<p>After all, she and her new friend have some dirty cops to beat seven shades of shit out of.</p>
<p>Everything else can wait.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Chapter Warnings:  Cannon Typical Violence, Brief Misogyny, Explicit Language, and Undertones of Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms.</p>
<p>
  <i>In which two Walking Wounded walk into a bar, and common ground leads to the start of a beautiful and terrifying friendship.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Or in which the global criminal underworld is about to get a <b>cataclysmic</b> shakeup, Pagan Min is charmed and delighted, and Robin finally gets her barfight and a new <strike>Dad</strike> friend.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Today's chapter brought to you by - my realization that (first encounter happening under the right circumstance) Robin and Pagan would get along <b>terrifyingly</b> well.  Also lots of raised eyebrows.  XD</i>
</p>
<p><i>Also...</i><br/>*sometime later – with most of the criminal underworld of [LOCATION] in smoldering ruins*<br/>Robin:  No, <i>seriously</i> though, I am <i><b>not</b></i> joining your criminal empire.  *glances at smoldering ruins*  Your… new one, I mean.  Obviously.<br/>Pagan:  Yes, yes, I <b>know</b>.  Say, does that sound like a helpless victim in need of assistance to you?<br/>Robin:  Ah, sh-  *runs off to provide assistance*<br/>Pagan:  *waits until she’s out of sight, then pulls out satellite phone*  Ajay!  Ajay!  Aaaajay!  Guess what!<br/>Ajay:  *just woken up from two hours sleep after several sleepless days of Far Cry Protagonisting in [DIFFERENT LOCATION]*  Wh- what?!<br/>Pagan:  You’ve got a new little sister!  Oh, she’s <i>amazing</i>, you’re going to <i>adore</i> her!<br/>Ajay:  *trying to decide between “Oh, Kyra, who did you abduct this time” and “Oh, <i>Kyra</i>, you’ve finally turned to necromancy”*  I…<br/>Ajay:  *realizes those are both <b>terrible</b> responses*  I don’t…<br/>Ajay:  *wakes up enough to start having realizations*  Wait…<br/>Ajay:  *beating his head against his “bed” and sighing in resignation*  Alright, I’ve only had this burner for nine hours, how do you keep getting my number?</p>
<p><i>Welp, hope y'all enjoyed this one, and see you next week!  Until then, be safe and well and - above all - be kind to yourself and others!</i>  &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. The Mother and The Madonna</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>She hears him before she sees him, and even then just barely – the little catches of breath and swallowed whimpers almost inaudible despite the early morning stillness.</p>
<p>But the important thing is that she <i>does</i> hear him, and then she <i>does <b>see</b></i> him – a tiny, trembling boy tucked into a little ball beneath a park bench.</p>
<p>Slowly (for her own benefit as well as his, admittedly) she kneels down by the bench, hands resting on her knees and smile gentle as she meets the startled and tear-filled brown eyes.</p>
<p>“Hi there, honey.  Are you lost?”</p>
<p>For a moment the little boy just stares at her.</p>
<p>Then, in a shuddering wave, his whole body starts to crumple – little face twisting and little shoulders curling and his great big eyes squeezing nearly shut as he <i>fights</i> to not start sobbing, and her heart’s nearly halfway to breaking as he <i>nods</i>.</p>
<p>“Oh, honey…”  Taking just a moment to look up and around for any sign of a frantically searching adult or crowd of children, she turns back to the boy.  “Were you on a fieldtrip, or –”</p>
<p>There’s a vigorous headshake, and after a few shuddering breaths the boy manages to quaver out, “Mer- my… my <i>mom</i>…”</p>
<p>“Alright,” she smiles encouragingly, and it’s a longshot but... “Do you know where she was the last time you saw her?”</p>
<p>His face twists and shudders, a few tears tracking down his cheeks as he chokes down a sob and shakes his head again.</p>
<p>“Alright…”  She takes a low breath, wills her voice to stay warm and easy, pushing <i>comfort</i> and <i>safety</i> outwards as much as she can and, when his big brown eyes blink wetly up at her, she smiles and extends one hand.  “Well, how's about I help you look for her?”</p>
<p>The boy freezes, his hiccupping breaths catching and his teary eyes going wide with shock, even as his eyebrows pull together with confusion and (more than likely) a touch of suspicion.</p>
<p>It hurts her heart a little (kids shouldn’t <i>have</i> to be scared of grownups), but she does her level best to not let it show – to stay warm and open, and she’s just getting ready to make a different offer, to call the police if he’d rather an officer help him, when –</p>
<p>His little hand is trembling when it touches hers, and his other is scrubbing at his cheeks – smudging dirt and tears into mud – but when he sniffles and blinks up at her there’s hope and trust in his big brown eyes.</p>
<p>It’s all she can do to not sweep him straight up in a great big hug.</p>
<p>Instead, she slips a handkerchief out of her pocket, giving his hand a squeeze as she guides him to sit on <i>top</i> of the bench and gives his face a little clean.</p>
<p>“What’s your name, honey?”  She asks when his breathing has evened out, keeping half an eye pealed for some sign of a potential mother even as she gives him a glance over.</p>
<p>He looks to be about six or seven, though she also thinks he might just be small for his age (and, small as he is, he looks properly fed, his skin doesn’t carry any more scrapes or bruises than a little boy <i>should</i> have… aside from a painful looking bruise that’s just swelling up on his left cheek bone…), and in the better light and with a cleaner face she can see he’s Asian (though she's not going to presume and venture a guess beyond that).  His clothes are a little dirty and rather plain, his sneakers worn and jeans faded and his Batman t-shirt is <i>just</i> too big…but the dirt is as superficial as what’s on his hands and face, and everything’s of <i>good</i>, durable quality.  And, when he finally looks up at her, tears drying up and sniffles fading away, his voice is the gentle and soft with <i>politeness</i> rather than <i>fear</i>, as he murmurs “AJ” with the relaxed accent of something west coast. </p>
<p>She smiles, encouraged when a tiny smile flits across his own face, and tucks her handkerchief away.  “Well, that’s a lovely name.  Now, AJ, honey,” and she squeezes his hand a little when he nods, “what were you and your mama doing when you got lost?”</p>
<p>“We…” his face scrunches a little, and his hand clenches tightly at hers, but he takes a deep breath before any new tears can come.  “We were… going to look for furniture, for the apartment.”  And here he trembles, his face scrunching more and his lip quivering, “Sh- she said I could pick my new bed…”</p>
<p>“Ok,” she squeezes his hand again, sliding her other arm around his quaking shoulders and giving him a little hug when he presses a bit to her side.  “That’s a good start… there’s not many furniture places around here.  You remember what store you were going to?”</p>
<p>He <i>doesn’t</i>, as it happens; so – after a few moments of quiet panicking – she gets up off the bench and, with his hand in hers and a prayer sent upstairs, they head off in the direction of the nearest store.</p>
<p>They’re coming near the sight of it (and quite the familiar sight at that – the bargains good enough for the quality that she and her husband have shopped there before) when a cry breaks through the muggy summer air.</p>
<p>“<i>Ajay!</i>”</p>
<p>Before she can as much as blink the boy’s pulled away from her, pelting down the sidewalk and throwing himself into the arms of a <i>strikingly</i> beautiful woman with a shriek of “Amma!”</p>
<p>The woman catches him midair – her arms wrapping him up tight as she sinks to the ground, weeping and pressing kisses against his hair and face amidst a flood of words in an unfamiliar language.</p>
<p>And, just down the sidewalk from the reunited mother and child, she presses a hand against her belly and <i>smiles</i> as the relief washes over her.</p>
<p>AJ’s mama pulls back at last, holding his face as she looks him over and speaks rapidly in her lyrical tongue.</p>
<p>It’s in English, though, that the boy responds.  “M’sorry.”  His head would clearly hang if not for his mother’s hands, and shame and guilt are apparent in his curled shoulders and shaking voice.  “I didn’t <i>mean</i> to, I just…”  And his head droops a little and one foot scuffs along the sidewalk as he murmurs, “there were some boys with a cat, and they were pulling its tail and –”</p>
<p>“Oh, Ajay.”  The other woman’s voice is proud and fond and exasperated all at once, and she presses a kiss next to the bruise on his cheek after a sigh of something more in her language.</p>
<p>“But,” he barely protests the affection, the events of the day clearly winning out over little boy pride as he starts to sniffle again, “but then I didn’t know where I <i>was</i> and…”  A few new tears well in his eyes, and for a moment it looks like that will be the end of it all.</p>
<p>Only then, suddenly, his head pops up and big brown eyes turn her way – bright and shining above the shaky little smile.  “But then she found me and helped me find you, so…”</p>
<p>Dark eyes – older and sharper and <i>colder</i> than the little boy’s innocent warmth – suddenly meet hers, the razor-edged intensity catching her off guard and catching the breath in her frozen lungs, her skin prickling and hair standing on end as the sense of being watched and studied by a predator crashes down on her.</p>
<p>But only for a moment.</p>
<p>Because just when she’s starting to feel <i>scared</i> the other woman’s eyes soften – the hard, dangerous suspicion fading away and leaving an echo of the boy’s warmth (albeit less open and <i>much</i> less innocent) in its place.</p>
<p>She stands up, lifting her son up to her hip with surprising ease and pressing a kiss to his temple when he gives a token protest.  And AJ hadn’t run that far (his mama had reached him quick enough) so it only takes a moment for the other woman to walk up close – her eyes still glistening and her voice thick with emotion as she nods in a little sort of bow.  “<i>Thank you</i>.”</p>
<p>“Oh, of <i>course</i>.”  She beams back, the moment of startled fear gone all away.  “I’m just so glad we found you as soon as we did; I can’t hardly imagine –”</p>
<p>And then the words cut off, something cold shivering down her spine as suddenly she <i>does</i> imagine – her mind racing now the little boy’s safe and the family is reunited, leaving nothing for her to focus on and –</p>
<p>The other woman nods again – eyes going even softer – and readjusts her boy a little on her hip.  “Your first?”</p>
<p>A laugh slips from her lips, starting tense and nervous before lightening as she rubs a hand comfortingly over her swollen belly.  “That obvious?”</p>
<p>The other woman hums with a little laughter of her own, the accompanying smile softening her face (slightly darker skinned and bit more definitively East Indian than her son’s) and making it even more beautiful.  Then, rather than answering, she tilts her head a little and, a tiny furrow appearing between her brows, asks, “How far along are you?”</p>
<p>“Seven months, plus a little.”  The words are sighed a little more heavily than she’d meant, and the weariness in her own voice startles a giggle from her even as the other woman (several years older, now that she’s looking) chuckles knowingly.  “Guess I don’t have to tell you I’m ready for <i>nine</i> months to have come and gone, by this point.”</p>
<p>And the older woman nods in agreement, still smiling, but… but increasingly there’s something… <i>odd</i> in her expression – her eyes narrowing ever so slightly and something glimmering deep down inside them, like she’s trying to make sense of something she’s barely caught a glimpse of.</p>
<p>She’s still smiling, is just about to start taking her leave (now that AJ – wait, no, his mama’d said it as <i>‘Ajay’</i> hadn’t she – is safe and sound it’s sinking in how she’s going to be <i>late</i>, and the girls are bound to start worrying), when –</p>
<p>The other woman’s head tilts – slowly but sharply – to one side, her eyes going distant and intent, as though she is <i>listening</i> to something, to some otherwise inaudible <i><b>voice</b></i> –</p>
<p>For a second time she finds herself caught and staring and utterly incapable of breathing.</p>
<p>And then, <i>once more</i>, the woman blinks… and then <i>smiles</i>, and the moment passes.</p>
<p>“I am sorry… you have already done <i>so <b>much</b></i>, but…”  The smile turns a bit sheepish, the moment of remarkably familiar <i>otherness</i> fading away entirely.  “We’ve only been in this city a few days; I… don’t suppose you know of someplace nearby where we can stop for lunch?”  Just a touch apologetically she nods to A- <i>Ajay</i>, still clinging to her neck even as he tries to look at ease.  “Something tells me the moment for furniture shopping has passed.  And,” she adds before any response is possible, her voice (heavily accented, lyrical, and altogether unlike her son’s American inflections) carrying a sudden note of… of <i>determination</i>, like she’s settled on a particular course of action from which she <i>will <b>not</b></i> be swayed.  “I would like to treat you, in some way, as a thank you.”</p>
<p>“Oh…”  She stares back, a little startled by the intensity in those brown eyes (and, if she’s honest, still a little <i>disoriented</i> by what she’d witnessed moments ago).  “That’s really not –”</p>
<p>“<i>Please</i>.”</p>
<p>And they <i>both</i> jump a little at that, and a split-second later the older woman’s blushing slightly as if embarrassed by her own intensity and –</p>
<p>Ajay sighs, deeply; his little head coming down to rest on his mother’s shoulder as weariness <i>finally</i> seems to overtake him – and even still he manages to shoot a look of youthful <i>exasperation</i> their way, of the sort only children can manage when adults are being <i>unbearably</i> silly.</p>
<p>And, above his sleepy head, their eyes meet again.</p>
<p>At which point they both begin to <i>laugh</i>.</p>
<p>“I am sorry,” the older woman chuckles, the strange intensity in her eyes dimmed (if not <i>extinguished</i>) as she cuddles her boy closer.  “I do not wish to impose, only…”</p>
<p>“Not at all,” she laughs back, feeling quite ridiculous and deeply amused all of a sudden.  “It would be my <i>pleasure</i> to introduce you to someplace new, <i><b>and</b></i>,” she adds with a cheeky wink, “to join you both.”</p>
<p>Something relaxes in the other woman’s shoulders, and there is a spark of something equally <i>relieved</i> and… triumphant (<i>maybe</i>?) in her eyes.  “If you are certain…?”</p>
<p>“I <i>am</i>.”  She nods back, still feeling a little unbalanced by the whole affair, but also… at peace.  Almost as though the change of plans has lifted some previously unnoticed weight from her shoulders.  And…</p>
<p>She shakes her head a little, smiling at her own strange flight of fancy and beams at the querying looks she receives.  “I <i>did</i> have an engagement… but I’m sure they won’t mind my rescheduling; it being in the name of neighborly behavior and all,” she chirps, winking.  “I’ll just make a quick call at the first payphone, and everything will be set.  Now then,” and with a bright smile she pulls up by the other woman’s side and gestures down the street, “let’s get the two of you – and,” she giggles, resting a hand on her stomach, “the two of <i>us</i> – properly <i>fed</i>.”</p>
<p>“Yes.”  The older woman falls in at her side, smiling warmly over Ajay’s now nodding head.</p>
<p>And they’ve made it away down the sidewalk before, humming a little laugh, the other smiles at her.  “I am Ishwari,” she says; and then, “Ghale,” the surname following almost as an afterthought (and with a touch less warmth than her given name).</p>
<p>And, smiling all the more brightly, she nods and raises one hand in a little wave.  “It’s a <i>pleasure</i> to meet you, Ishwari.  My name’s Faith – Faith Seed.”</p>
<p>Ishwari nods back, her eyes warm and bright and friendly as they stroll down the sidewalk together.</p>
<p>And it’s strange, really, but…</p>
<p>But suddenly Faith feels so <i><b>good</b></i> about everything.</p>
<p>Well – she decides, the sun warm on her skin and the complementary warmth of a steady flow of friendly conversation at her lips – it just goes to show how it really <i>is</i> always worth the time and effort to show a little kindness.</p>
<p>Some days it even gets you a new friend or two.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Chapter Warnings:  NONE!  Fluff and friendship for everyone!  *throws confetti*</p>
<p>
  <i>In which a chance encounter is all it takes to knock the Wheel of Fate askew.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>OR, in which Ishwari Ghale (recently transferred from the California branch of [COMPANY]) sees the approaching shadow of Sacrifice, grabs Faith(1) Seed and her unborn child straight out of the jaws of Death, and is <b>immediately</b> prepared to meet The Voice out back of the ethereal school yard (or wherever the gods are hanging these days) and <b>beat</b> the divinity out of it with its own fridge should the situation ever demand it; meanwhile Faith(1) is <b>all kinds</b> of thrilled about her lovely new friend and life in general.  Featuring Ajay “Yes, I <b>am</b> the cutest kid in this hemisphere, at least until my new baby cousin is born” Ghale.</i>
  <br/>
  <i>
    <span class="small">Not featuring Joseph Seed, who is soon to be <b>very</b> confused by the entire existence of his wife's new best friend.</span>
  </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i><b>OR</b> or, in which Faith Seed is too pure and good for this sinful world... and that is <b>exactly</b> why Ishwari is going to make <b>damn</b> sure she stays in it.</i>
</p>
<p><i>Also...</i><br/>Ishwari:  I have known Faith Seed for approximately two minutes, and if anything ever happens to her or her baby I will <i>break down the borders of the spirit world and <b>MURDER</b> whatever amorphous <b>maderchod</b> who had a hand in their suffering.</i><br/>The Voice:  … Don’t you mean ‘Kill everyone on this Earth and then myse-’<br/>Ishwari:  <i><b>Kutti</b> I <b>know</b> what I said!</i></p>
<p>
  <i>I enjoy women who are kind and badass and there for each other, and who don't die in a multi-step project leading to an apocalypse.  Hope y'all like them too.  See you soon, you wonderful beautiful people!  ^-^ &lt;3</i>
</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. The Healer and The Exile</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>She sees him in the back aisles of the gas station and hardly pays him any mind.  Which is honestly a little funny, in a bleak and depressing sort of way; after all, the guy who's currently browsing the liquor shelves - a few years younger than her, on the taller side for an Asian guy, well-built, and just the right balance of pretty and handsome - is certainly someone she <i>would’ve</i> paid quite a bit of attention to once.  But... but that was <i>before</i>, and <i>now</i>…</p>
<p>Anyway, she does notice how his skin’s a little ashy and his hands are <i>just</i> shaking as he grabs a bottle of cheap vodka, but she’s barely given him a second thought when –</p>
<p>He stiffens, abruptly, then goes <i>utterly</i> relaxed before glancing up nonchalantly to glance her way and –</p>
<p>Daisy feels the earth fall out from underneath her as their eyes meet, and in that moment it’s all she can do to not be violently sick all over a row of chips and pretzels.</p>
<p>And then his eyes (<i>Those <b>eyes…</b></i>) are <i>gone</i>, and he’s already moving when she starts to breathe again – giving her a wide berth without appearing to (<i>watching</i> her without looking at her) as he walks towards the checkout with his vodka in one hand and a roll of duct tape in the other, and Daisy…</p>
<p>Daisy’s mind races – images and memories and feelings flashing through it wildly with <i>those eyes</i> at the center of everything and… she…</p>
<p>She knows.</p>
<p>And she’s not sure where she finds the courage, but she manages to get up alongside him before he reaches the counter.</p>
<p>He slows at her approach, then goes still as she pulls up next to him, no sign on his face or in his body language that he’s being anything but polite, but she <i>knows</i> better – knows the way his muscles have gone relaxed, knows the way his hands are ready, <i>knows</i> the <i><b>danger</b></i> she’s in right now.</p>
<p>Most of all though, she knows his eyes.</p>
<p>And that’s why she looks at him – her own eyes soft and lowered and fixed on his jaw – and keeps her voice low and gentle.  “My apartment’s just down the block.  I keep my first aid kit pretty well stocked.”</p>
<p>From where her eyes are fixed on his stubbled jaw she sees him go stiff, sees those horribly, painfully familiar eyes narrow.</p>
<p>And then he nods.</p>
<p>And, heart racing and hands shaking, Daisy waits for him to set his would-be purchases down on a random shelf before leading him outside and down the street to her home.</p>
<p>#################</p>
<p>By the time she’s got things set up in the kitchen her hands have stopped shaking – the task, if not <i>calming</i> her nerves, at least shoving them down where she can ignore them until later.</p>
<p>Even still she feels the ghost of a cry shudder inside her lungs when she turns around and sees the man standing by her table, his shirt off and –</p>
<p>He’s polite enough not to react to her horror (she doesn’t kid herself that he doesn’t notice); instead he just… looks around him – calm and casual and not at all like he's slowly <i>bleeding out</i> in her kitchen, his dark eyes panning slowly around her apartment with what could be taken for polite interest.</p>
<p>“Nice place for a nurse,” he says after a moment (the first words he’s said), and he nods helpfully at the scrubs lying in a laundry hamper just under her coffee table before her already affected mind can fully panic at his knowledge.</p>
<p>It’s a valid concern, all things considered, so – pulling on a pair of gloves (and trying to make her hands stop <i>shaking</i>) – she keeps her voice as light as she can while answering his unspoken question.  “Graduation present from my parents, when I finished nursing school.”  She <i>doesn’t</i> add how the present had come with pointed comments about how having her own place (free and clear) will make it easier to work towards a <i>‘proper’</i> medical degree (as if being a nurse is somehow <i>beneath</i> her), if she’s so determined to give up swimming all of a sudden.  But, still, she’s pretty sure he gets <i>some</i> idea about her family drama, if the way his expression goes a little bit soft and sympathetic is any indication.</p>
<p>And isn’t <i>that</i> just a thing and a half… <i>him</i> feeling bad for <i>her</i>.</p>
<p>There’s a whole new wave of guilt clawing at her stomach, and Daisy makes herself breathe deep as she gestures towards the table.</p>
<p>The man hops up without a moment’s hesitation – like getting ugly, gaping <i>stab wounds</i> treated in people’s kitchens is just another day at the office for him.</p>
<p>Which, given the scarred <i>ruin</i> that is his body…</p>
<p>Daisy takes a deep breath, swallows down the sour tang in her mouth, and gets to work.</p>
<p>#################</p>
<p>After... after <i>The Islands</i>... when they’d gotten back – gotten <i>home</i> – the thought of changing careers <i>at all</i> hadn’t occurred to her for a moment.  She hadn't expected... no.  She hadn't <i>wanted</i> change - not of <i>any</i> sort.  She’d just wanted things to be <i><b>normal</b></i> again.  So, the moment her doctor had cleared her, Daisy had thrown herself back into her old routine.</p>
<p>It had barely taken a month for things to fall apart.</p>
<p>She’d been so <i>stupid</i>, thinking there might be any other outcome.  That 'normal' would ever be an option again.  Because... because ‘normal’ was girl-time with Liza – Liza was <i>gone</i>, tucked away (after she’d had her breakdown that first week) in a safe little care facility with doctors and therapists and gurus falling over themselves to help her heal.  ‘Normal’ was going out clubbing or staying in chilling with the guys – Oliver was deeper into drugs than he’d <i>ever</i> been, Riley was always angry and <i>zealous</i> to appear that he wasn’t, Keith was someone else entirely (when she even saw him), and Vincent was <i>gone</i>.</p>
<p>‘Normal’ was Grant.</p>
<p>Grant was dead.</p>
<p>And Ja-</p>
<p>But, in the end, the tipping point hadn’t been any of that.  <i>Hadn’t</i> been those long months of <i>hell</i>.  <i>Hadn’t</i> been the gaping voids and distant strangers standing where Daisy’s friends and loved ones had been, just a moment ago.  <i>Hadn’t</i> been the <i>future</i> that had been right there in her grasp, only to be ripped away with a bullet.  No.  No, she’d <i>pushed <b>past</b></i> all that, hadn’t she?  She’d gotten back into the swing of things, told herself that she was fine and they’d be fine and soon everything would be back to <i>normal</i>, and she’d even gotten herself into a decent swim meet and –</p>
<p>She’d gotten back into the water.</p>
<p>And it felt like she was really present.</p>
<p>It felt like the whole world was with her.</p>
<p>It felt <i>like <b>winning</b></i>.</p>
<p>Later, in the hospital, Daisy had rambled something about flashbacks and blacking out until no one <i>suspected</i> that she’d just let herself sink, and when her parents and her coach and the doctors <i>finally</i> left her room she’d just curled up and <i>cried</i>.  </p>
<p>And then… time went on.  Liza eventually reappeared – sharper and sadder and pretending to be just as she always was.  Oliver had a <i>moment</i> and then checked himself into rehab – then threw himself into working for some of his mom’s charities as a means of staying <i>out</i> of rehab.  Keith also threw himself into work – vanished into it, honestly (they don't see him anymore, not really, but apparently he finally got a therapist who actually <i>helps</i>).  Riley’s anger eventually burned itself out – reduced itself down to smoldering embers, and no one talks about what it <i>cost</i>.  Vincent’s still dead – she tries to visit his memorial regularly and hers aren’t the only flowers.</p>
<p>Grant’s still dead.</p>
<p>And –</p>
<p>Daisy made a new life too, eventually.</p>
<p>‘Normal’ she left in the water.</p>
<p>And now here she is – stitching up a stab wound on some perfect stranger who’s sitting on her kitchen table, numbing the pain of her back-alley surgery with a hundred dollar bottle of wine someone’d given Daisy last Christmas.</p>
<p>What a world.</p>
<p>She tries to focus on the task at hand – to not think about all the scars that litter his body.</p>
<p>It’s really hard when the look and feel and spirit of them’s just as horribly, heart-rendingly familiar as his eyes are.</p>
<p>She does finish her job, at any rate – and if it takes her a little longer than it probably needed to then at least she’s done the job <i>damn well</i>.</p>
<p>(She doesn’t <i>mean</i> to think of Dr. Earnhardt – of his sad, broken eyes and the way he’d <i>smiled</i> when he looked at her and spoke his dead daughter’s name.  She does anyway, and she wonders whether he’d have been proud of her work, just like she always does.)</p>
<p>Her (patient?  Client?  Guest?)… the guy seems satisfied with her work, anyway – sliding easily from her table and stretching with practiced motions that test the security and range of the stitches without stressing or tearing them.  And then…</p>
<p>Daisy’s… not sure what she was expecting, if anything.  If definitely feels like <i>something</i> of note should happen, but… but it doesn’t.  The guy just puts his shirt and jacket back on and starts grabbing his things, and Daisy starts cleaning up her bloody tools and table.</p>
<p>She’s got most of the mess dealt with, grateful that she’d thought to put her spare shower curtain over the table before starting (helped with sanitation <i>and</i> clean up, hurray for multipurpose pragmatism), when the guy gets all his gear in place, nods at her and then – after an awkward moment where he starts pulling pulling out a wad of bills and she waves him off, leaving him to just stand and shift a little – he murmurs a soft “Thank you,” and heads for the door.</p>
<p>He makes it all the way there, hand twisting the knob, when she finally breaks.</p>
<p>“Would you ever go back?”</p>
<p>Her voice rings out through her apartment – too loud, desperate and cracking, and she finds herself gripping the back of a chair to stay upright as the familiar stranger freezes at the door.</p>
<p>Daisy forces a breath through her lungs, shaking as she tries to regain some composure.</p>
<p>She should stop.</p>
<p>She doesn’t actually know him.</p>
<p><i>She</i> wouldn’t have the <i>right</i> to ask even if she did.</p>
<p>But…</p>
<p>She has to know.</p>
<p>“After… what happened.”  She sees him stiffen, feels a flood of guilt and shame, and charges ahead anyway.  “After you got out.”  And she doesn’t need to know <i>where</i> he’d been any more than she needs to know the specifics of what exactly had happened to him there – she <i>knows</i> his eyes, and that tells her enough.  “Would you ever go back home again?”</p>
<p>She sees his hand clench on the doorknob.  Sees his muscles tense so much they quake.  Sees him force breath after breath as he fights to keep his own composure.</p>
<p>And she doesn’t need any of it, because she already <i>knew</i> that he’d fought his way home only to leave it again.</p>
<p>The only thing she <i>doesn’t</i> know…</p>
<p>He sighs, at last – a long, soft, endlessly weary sound – and turns back to her with the broken eyes that she <i>knows</i>.</p>
<p>“Maybe.”</p>
<p>His voice is soft, still, quiet, and immovably cold and pained beneath that – like a silk scarf over a broken knife.  And it’s not the <i>same</i> – too even, too steady, the beat of a drum rather than the quiver of a cracked flute – but… but she knows it too.</p>
<p>And he sighs again, and holds her gaze, and –</p>
<p>“If I had a <i>home</i> to go back to.”</p>
<p><i><b>He</b> knows</i>.</p>
<p>He knows, and he keeps speaking, and his eyes hold her.</p>
<p>“If I had a place there… if I felt safe… if I had a <i>reason</i>.  Maybe.”</p>
<p>And he looks into her eyes and <i>knows</i>, and Daisy wishes to <i>God</i> he would look at her with <i><b>judgment</b></i> rather than sorrow and sympathy.</p>
<p>She’s shaking – only her hand on the chair and his familiar eyes holding her upright – and her eyes are burning and it’s getting so very hard to breathe and any second she’s going to <i>break</i>.</p>
<p>And he knows that too.</p>
<p>He sighs a third time, his eyes falling away and freeing her as he drops his head in a nod, and he turns back and opens the door.</p>
<p>“Be careful.”</p>
<p>Daisy’s not sure how she finds it in herself to speak – it <i>hurts</i> to speak (so much, in so many ways) – but…</p>
<p>She has to.</p>
<p>So she forces a breath and she does.</p>
<p>“And safe.”  She watches him tremble, just once, through a haze of tears – and through the water she can just pretend that…  “And… <i>come <b>home</b></i> someday.  Even if it’s to a new one.”</p>
<p>He stays there for a moment, motionless but for the occasional shiver that runs through his skin.</p>
<p>And then he nods, just once.</p>
<p>And steps outside, closing the door behind him.</p>
<p>And the stranger walks out of Daisy’s life for a second time.</p>
<p>She’s not sure how long she stands there – holding herself upright by a chair and surrounded by blood-stained plastic and used medical supplies.  But, eventually, she feels the tears begin to slow, and finally she begins to breathe again.</p>
<p>And then she’s moving – her feet carrying her away from the bloody mess and into her bedroom, her knees finally buckling at the head of her bed, and when she sits down next to the little wooden end table her fingers are cold and detached as she slips off the key that hangs around her neck and slips it into the lock of the top drawer.</p>
<p>There are only two things inside.</p>
<p>A hand gun - that she’s learned the use of, loaded and cared for respectfully, and prays she’ll never be forced to use.</p>
<p>And a little scrap of paper - blank but for the phone number written in a familiar hand.</p>
<p>Daisy reaches out, carefully picks up the scrap of paper, and runs her fingers over each familiar number.</p>
<p>And then, just as carefully, she puts the paper back in the drawer, shuts it, and locks it.</p>
<p>She wonders, as ever, whether she’ll ever find the courage to call.</p>
<p>But she knows.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Chapter Warnings:  PTSD, Mention of Attempted Suicide, Off-Screen Violence, Off-Screen Surgery, and Guilt.  Lots and lots of <i>Guilt</i>.</p>
<p>
  <i>In which a chance encounter between two familiar strangers leads to a quiet study on "You can't go home again."</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Or, in which Ajay Ghale is having a bad day (getting stabbed while Far Cry Protagonist-ing will do that to you), and ER nurse Daisy Lee finds that she <b>has</b> to help him (<b>guilt</b> will do that to you).  Featuring many ghosts and the lingering specter of Jason Brody.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Sooo this actually took a little turn while I was writing it.  Initially the focus was a lot heavier on the interaction between Daisy and Ajay, and on the whole injury/treatment/current Adventure(TM) stuff; but as soon as I started writing it out it just... morphed more and more into an introspective dealie centered more on Daisy herself, and the general fallout that happened post-Far Cry 3.  Kinda sad that Ajay got a bit sidelined in his shared chapter (again), but at the same time I'm also pretty happy with how this <b>did</b> turn out (and I think Ajay still gave a pretty good accounting of himself, even with a slightly diminished role).   It doesn't feel like there's a whole lot of exploration into how the events of Far Cry games effect the non-Protagonist/Antagonist characters, who while not getting the lion's share of <b>Trauma</b> also lack the agency/control that comes with being the one to either run the show or <b>stop</b> the show, so there's a whole <b>different</b> world of PTSD to end up in; and it was fun to dip a little into that, if only slightly.  (Also to touch on how some very likely reactions that non-Far Cry Protagonists would have to actual-Far Cry Protagonists once the game ends...)</i>
</p>
<p><i>Incidentally, the interesting thing I'm learning about Ajay is - unless you're writing from <b>his</b> perspective he just... sort of shifts himself into the background.  Which is so <b>fascinating</b> to me because when he <b>is</b> the viewpoint character he has <b>so much presence</b>, but the <b>second</b> someone else is at the wheel it's all...</i><br/>Viewpoint Character: Oh, hi Ajay!  How's it going?<br/>Ajay:  ...  *quietly crab-shuffles to the side*  ...  <span class="small">Hi.</span><br/><i>It's the <b>weirdest thing</b>, y'all.</i></p>
<p>
  <i>Real quick note before we part - I am going to be taking a one week hiatus from this fic, so sadly there will be no update next week (Friday the 13th).  We'll be back the week after that, though, and I hope it'll be worth the wait.  So, I will see you all again on November 20th; and, until then, be safe and well and remember - you are an amazing and beautiful person, so make sure you take the time to do something nice for yourself, and then pass that on to someone else!  Share the love, my lovelies, and see you next time!  ^-^/ &lt;3</i>
</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. The Sinner and The Devil</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>*Warning - Lifestyles of the Rich and the [In]Famous Ahead*</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The party is in full swing when the atmosphere <i>shifts</i>.</p>
<p>Most everyone in attendance, well into their cups (or other preferred poisons), fail to notice the change – <i>consciously</i>, at least.</p>
<p>John Duncan isn’t most people.</p>
<p>He doesn’t let on that he’s noticed the change, of course; just stays where he is, smiling and nodding and commenting in <i>all</i> the right places as the <i>imbecile</i> before him rambles on and on about his fucking <i>boat</i> (which, frankly, was <i>already</i> an impressive feat – the myopic lout’s been going on for so long that even the obscenely well-paid prostitute sitting on his lap is starting to show her boredom).  But John <i>does</i> notice, and he <i>does</i> react to the shift – reclining and angling himself casually so he has a better view of the room.</p>
<p><i>That’s</i> why, even faced <i>away</i> from the doors, he knows <i>exactly</i> when the newcomers arrive – the unconscious reactions of people stilling and stiffening, shying away instinctively as something inside (deep enough that most ‘civilized’ folk ignore or misinterpret) warns them of <i>Danger</i>.</p>
<p>He doesn’t respond.  Doesn’t turn.  Doesn’t make his excuses and turn to something that’s <i>far</i> more interesting than his current engagement.</p>
<p>He just sits, pays due attendance to his firm’s boat obsessed client (an hour of mind-numbing tedium now for a six-figure paycheck or two later – the obsessed types <i>always</i> remember the ones who listen with apparent interest to their little hobbies), and <i>waits</i>.</p>
<p>Unsurprisingly, he doesn’t have to wait long.</p>
<p>“Ah, <i>there</i> he is!  John, you sneaky devil, I’ve been <i>looking</i> for you!  Oh, now pardon us, Milt – I need to steal John here away for a bit…”</p>
<p>He turns finally, just enough to smile at Henley-Shaw without <i>actually</i> turning away from Milton – the firm’s senior-partner and client doing their usual song and dance of rich bastards and their lawyers as Milton wobbles to his feet and (with a few parting words – bombastic and boisterous on Milton’s part, suitably affable and charmingly deferential on John’s) staggers off to give his companion the chance to make a decent bonus for the night.</p>
<p>Which leaves John in the company of his bureaucratic superior, who – predictably enough – turns his way with a grin and an implied eye roll as soon as the money’s walked away.</p>
<p>“Sorry to interrupt your fun,” he laughs, making his derision a shade more evident than John thinks prudent (even considering the degrees of intoxication around them), “but I’ve got someone you just <i>have</i> to meet.”</p>
<p>John, of course, smiles and chimes his acquiescence, rising to his feet and dutifully letting himself be guided through the crowded room – just another novelty to entertain the <i>real</i> people, so far as Henley-Shaw’s concerned (and fair enough; if the partner wants to trot out the firm’s wunderkind then <i>John</i> will hardly protest the networking and free exposure to an ever brighter future).  And so he smiles and nods and plays the dutiful underling – the ever-so-grateful and slightly awed youngster who makes the aging (and increasingly <i>obsolete</i>) partner feel powerful and wise – as Henley-Shaw yammers away and weaves them through the reveling throng.</p>
<p>“– really, you’ll be – ah, gentlemen!  I trust I didn’t leave you <i>too</i> long.”  And, like that’s the punchline to some brilliant joke, Henley-Shaw laughs heartily as he pulls them to a halt by a pair of men sitting in a quieter (and <i>astoundingly</i> unpopulated – really, there aren’t even any <i>prostitutes</i>) part of the room.</p>
<p>One of the men – an only <i>just</i> middle-aged white man, his suit high quality and <i>much</i> more subdued than most of what’s swanning around the party, face <i>hard</i> under its mask of easy affability (<i>Military or organized crime, most likely, if not a combination</i>) – looks up from their conversation, smiling easily even as his eyes quickly and efficiently scan and catalogue John.</p>
<p>And he’s barley made his response – gracious in his “Not at all,” – when Henley-Shaw claps a hand on John’s shoulder and (without <i>any</i> sign of situational awareness) crows, “Good, good!  Can’t have anyone saying Southern hospitality’s dead, now can we!”</p>
<p>And he’s <i>laughing</i> again, <i>completely</i> unaware of the reactions around him – the presumed high-roller shooting a darkly amused (so much <i>worse</i> than annoyed) look at his less visible companion, and John (<i>noticing</i> the quiet exchange) allowing just a <i>bit</i> of what he’s feeling to show and letting his smile go a touch pained (which is, of course, noticed in turn – and he sees the other’s estimation of him go up a notch).</p>
<p>“So,” the high-roller breaks easily over the starts of Henley-Shaw’s next ramble, the flat sharpness of his voice (<i>Something west, but not <b>mid</b>west… Texas, maybe?</i>) managing to seize control of the conversation without <i>actually</i> appearing rude.  “I’m guessing that <i>this</i>,” he dips his glass towards John with a cheekily raised eyebrow, “is the young gun we’ve heard so much about.”</p>
<p>And John nods a little, humbly, and keeps his eyes up and cheeks unblushing (the gaze on him is too sharp, too savvy, and too straight for <i>that</i> kind of pageantry) as Henley-Shaw goes through the motions of laughing and clapping him on the back again.  “Sure is; gentlemen, allow me to introduce you to John Duncan – a real golden boy at Du Pont, Whitmire, and Henley right now, I don’t mind telling you.  John,” another thudding hand at his back as the high-roller stands, nearly knocking him off balance as he reaches for the offered hand, “this here’s Mr. Harmon.”  Another deep-bellied laugh rumbles through Henley-Shaw, and even holding eye contact with the man before him John can <i>sense</i> the tactless wink that’s shot his way, “You saved him and his partners quite a bit of money today.”</p>
<p>
  <i>Oh, of all the –</i>
</p>
<p>He catches the split-second change of glance and sharpened gaze, and (quite readily) lets a touch of embarrassment slip into his expression, alongside a note of apology in his voice as he shakes the older man’s hand.  “Well I’m certainly glad to have been of assistance.  Sunwell, Ltd.,” and here he lets a touch of intent (‘<i>I</i> know how discretion works’) edge into his tone, and his eyes are just soft enough as they steadily meet Harmon’s returned gaze, “are valuable clients.”</p>
<p>Mr. Harmon blinks at him, appraisingly, and under Henley-Shaw’s latest burst of laughter (<i>honestly</i>, it’s like the man thinks he can brute-force amiability with gross repetition) John can <i>just</i> catch a little hum from the man sitting – far enough and <i>pointedly</i> enough out of view that he can’t properly look without appearing rude – in a high-backed armchair.</p>
<p>“Good to know,” Harmon (whose name was <i>absolutely</i> not on <i>any</i> of the documents John spent weeks pouring over in preparation for his case, and who he’d lay money cannot be remotely linked to Sunwell, Ltd. without the use of a few federal task forces) says at last; and <i>neither</i> his perfectly <i>genuine</i> friendly smile or his disarmingly down-to-earth drawl disguise the <i>full</i> meaning of those words.</p>
<p>Not to <i>John</i> anyway.  Henley-Shaw – being the sort who couldn’t spot subtext if it dressed like a Carnival dancer and slapped him on the ass – just throws his head back and laughs <i>again</i>.  “What did I tell you, Mr. Harmon,” a thick hand slaps the probable Texan on the shoulder (and color John impressed – Harmon only looks vaguely incredulous for a moment, rather than showing signs of very understandable murderous intent), “John here’s our <i>golden</i> boy,” the other hand comes down on <i>John’s</i> shoulder, and a gleaming smile manages to beam over them both simultaneously as Henley-Shaw winks knowingly.  “He’s got more tricks than you can shake a stick at, and they haven’t let the firm down yet!”</p>
<p><i>And if you rub my belly,</i> John thinks, his smile holding with <i>just</i> the right amount of blended modesty and embarrassment, <i>I’ll <b>bark</b>.</i></p>
<p>He’s tempted to actually say it out loud – and something tells him that Harmon (and his seemingly disinterested companion) would <i>genuinely</i> find it amusing… but it’s <i>Henley-Shaw</i> that has to deal with on a daily basis.  For the time being, anyway.</p>
<p>So, that unfortunate truth in mind, he prepares something else that’s properly self-effacing (while still letting on that <i><b>Yes</b></i>, he is <i><b>damn good</b></i> his job and <i>knows</i> it).</p>
<p>Which is when Harmon’s grin <i>grows</i>, and – leaning to rest his weight on his heels – he tilts his head back towards the fourth man, even as his eyes stay (glinting slightly, amused and just a bit <i>impressed</i> on John.  “Twice the golden boy… well,” he laughs a little, the sound <i>infinitely</i> more genuine and pleasant than anything John’s heard all day, “that’s definitely on brand, isn’t it.”</p>
<p><i>And <b>there</b>,</i> he thinks – actually feeling a little thrill, <i>is the invitation.</i></p>
<p>John’s turning his attention politely to the seated figure when Henley-Shaw bursts in (and <i>this</i> time he doesn’t mind in the <i>slightest</i> – really, <i>let</i> the oaf continue tarnishing his own reputation while allowing John longer to observe and plan, <i>he</i> won’t protest the gift-wrapped advantage), laughing and clapping John on the shoulder and generally acting like some barely grown frat-boy (or performing seal).  “Right you are, Mr. Harmon,” he cheers, like he has <i>any</i> clue what the other man’s talking about.  “now, John, you be on your <i>best</i> behavior now,” a <i>far</i> too jovial wink and a meaty squeeze on the shoulder, “because there’s someone <i><b>very</b></i> important that you need to meet.”</p>
<p>And he smiles (deferential enough for Henley-Shaw and with enough edge for the others to see when they look for it) and he turns dutifully and –</p>
<p>The man in the armchair stands.</p>
<p>And the world stops.</p>
<p>He’s…</p>
<p>The man who turns to them is older (somewhere in his late forties at a guess), his age and the quiet <i>power</i> he’s radiating not quite suited for the bleached undercut or the <i>pink</i> suit he’s wearing… except it <i>does</i> work – everything about his appearance meticulously calculated and yet <i>effortlessly</i> natural and –</p>
<p>“John,” a hand claps down on his shoulder, nearly <i>startling</i> him from his reverie (only <i>years</i> of practice and training saving him), “I have the <i>great</i> pleasure and honor of introducing you to his <i>royal majesty</i>… King Min of Ky-rat.”</p>
<p>And Henley-Shaw’s clearly about to say more, <i>clearing</i> missing the sudden twitch of <i>irritation</i> from Harmon, but –</p>
<p>There’s a chuckle.</p>
<p>John feels his breath catch.</p>
<p>Tilting his head back to regard them (to regard <i>John</i>) the <i>king</i> raises a hand and idly swirls the amber liquor in his glass – his eyes gleaming quietly and his smile feline, and his <i>voice</i> is a velvet <i>purr</i> when he chuckles again.  “Now, now, no need for <i>that</i>… we aren’t in old fashioned Kyrat –” the name lilts delicately and almost <i>pointedly</i> lacks any note of correction, “– right now; we’re in <i>America</i>.”  His words flow – warmer and smoother than the prohibitively expensive liquor in his glass – over John, the silken glide of his accent (a <i>sinful</i> English purr with a faint Hong Kong whisper) pulling a shiver from him before he can stop it.  The older man <i>sees</i>  that (something tells John he would have <i>known</i> even if it’d been stopped) and <i>smiles</i> – his eyes gleaming brighter as he brings his glass to his lips for a moment (lips parting, throat bobbing as he <i>swallows</i>), before turning <i>all</i> his attention back to John and –</p>
<p>“Call me Pagan.”</p>
<p>The man smiles at him – a tiger’s smile, all power and dominance and lethal intent.</p>
<p>His eyes <i>gleam</i> – dark and dangerous and so very <i>amused</i> by all the little people around him.</p>
<p>And, fixed in place and made breathless, John stares into the eyes of the most powerful and dangerous man he’s ever met.</p>
<p>And he’s pretty sure he’s fallen in love.</p>
<p>################</p>
<p>“– still can’t believe <i>they</i> ended up paying <i>us</i> damages.”  Harmon shakes his head wonderingly, leaning in close to top off John’s glass.  “I thought that sort of thing was pure Hollywood.”</p>
<p>“Now Paul,” draped over the sofa like an imperious cat, the king – <i>Pagan</i> – lifts his own glass in salute, his eyes crinkling slightly upwards as he chuckles, “Don’t sell dear Mr. Duncan short.  After all,” there’s a hint of teeth in the smile, “I’m certain our ‘gold boy’ is capable of so much more than a little courtroom domination.”</p>
<p>Harmon chuckles at that, lifting his own glass.</p>
<p>John barely notices – the complement and the jab (at <i> Henley-Shaw</i>, he knows, and <i>not</i> against him) making him duck his head in a display of muted shyness that <i>isn’t</i> affected.</p>
<p>Judging by the amused tilt of the king’s head, John doesn’t quite manage to suppress a blush.</p>
<p>Some time has passed since they left the main party at the mansion’s exterior rooms, drifting deeper and deeper inward into what John <i>suspects</i> is the <i>master suite</i>.  Wherever they are, precisely, it’s a damned sight <i>nicer</i> than being out amongst the swell – the trendier (borderline nouveau rich) decor giving way to understated old-money opulence, and the teeming motion and drunken shrieks of the party-goers vanishing in favor of privacy and <i>peace</i>.</p>
<p>Normally… John would <i>hate</i> that.  Normally he would find his way back into the chaos and debauchery as soon as possible, or otherwise spend the staid encounter with his teeth metaphorically grinding as his nerves frayed with boredom.</p>
<p><i>Now</i> though…</p>
<p>Harmon asks him a question, he responds with something <i>apparently</i> polite and <i>actually</i> pithy, and when the king (<i>Pagan</i>) catches the full meaning and chuckles deep within his broad chest John’s mouth runs dry.</p>
<p>It’s just the three of them at the moment; almost <i>immediately</i> upon making the back of the mansion a pair of working girls had appeared (apparently by chance if, unlike John, one failed to notice Harmon’s little beckoning nod), and it had been with the <i>bare minimum</i> of protestations and excuses that Henley-Shaw allowed himself to be pulled away.  And since then –</p>
<p>The indolent ruler lifts his glass, his throat rippling sinfully as he <i>swallows</i> the fine scotch, and John narrowly avoids choking on his own sip.</p>
<p>He’s barely tipsy from liquor and hasn’t so much as <i>glimpsed</i> anything stronger all night, and yet he can’t remember the last time he’s felt so <i>high</i> – the heady disorientation approaching euphoria <i>just</i> from being in the same room as this man.</p>
<p><i>Pagan Min,</i> he thinks, the very <i>thought</i> of the name almost enough to drag a groan from him, <i>might just be the most intoxicating drug in this world.</i></p>
<p>He’s just taking another sip (fighting the urge to knock his glass back like a cheap shot and feeling like a damn <i>virgin</i>) when something shrill (the <i>inanely</i> bright and cheery strains of some pop song) cuts through the air – almost making John jump and cutting Harmon off midword.</p>
<p>“Ah, I have to –”</p>
<p>Harmon’s already on his feet, cell phone in hand as he half turns to his (<i>Employer?</i>) companion.</p>
<p>The older man raises one hand and makes a little shooing wave, the words “Give her my best” barely out of his mouth before Harmon’s walking away.</p>
<p>“Hey Ashley, how’d the recital go?  Really?  Honey that’s <i>great</i>, I am so <i>proud</i> of you!  Oh, I wish I could’ve been there too; business took a <i>lot</i> longer than we were hoping – what?  Oh, honey of <i>course</i> I’ll be back in time for that.  I just have one more meeting tomorrow and then I’m on the <i>first</i> plane –”</p>
<p>The door pulls shut behind him, cutting off the sound of his voice – so very warm and <i>adoring</i> for a man who clearly worked with blood and death.</p>
<p><i>Well, how about that…</i>  John’s eyes linger on the closed doors, something raw shifting inside him.  <i>An <b>actual</b> loving father.</i></p>
<p>He allows just a <i>hint</i> of a hum to escape, quiet and formless enough to avoid conveying any actual meaning (<i>he’s</i> not even sure what the sound would be otherwise), and turns back to –</p>
<p>
  <i>Oh…</i>
</p>
<p>He watches, stunned and eyes wide, as the king of Kyrat – perfectly casual and without any sign that anything’s out of the ordinary – leans over the antique coffee table and neatly cuts a pile of snowy powder into lines and…</p>
<p>By the time the king (<i>The <b>king</b>, the absolute <b>monarch</b> of a <b>foreign country</b></i>) leans back to drape himself over the couch with a contented hum, a handkerchief coming from one pocket to casually brush a ghost of white powder form his nose, John... is staring – eyes still wide and jaw fallen slack.</p>
<p>Which… which would normally be an <i>intolerable</i> lapse of control, but…</p>
<p>But <i>fuck</i>.</p>
<p><i>Really</i> – blatant display of illegal behavior aside (not <i>entirely</i> surprising, honestly, the actions performed by the rich and powerful in front to lawyers can be <i>astonishing</i>), John’s <i>quite</i> sure he’s never seen someone make the act of snorting cocaine <i>graceful</i> before.</p>
<p>It actually shouldn’t be <i>possible</i>…</p>
<p>A low chuckle <i>snaps</i> his mind back to the moment – only for a pair of darkly gleaming eyes to bring him up short again.</p>
<p>The older man’s lips twitch in (fond?) amusement as he tilts his head to the side, regarding John for a <i>long</i> moment before – with another little chuckle – he slips a little white packet out from an inside pocket of his jacket and extends it smoothly (<i><b>Regally</b></i>) towards John.</p>
<p>Breath catches in his throat, a sudden rush of cold running up and down his spine as he stares – first at the little white packet and then at the lounging, smiling tiger behind it.</p>
<p>This…</p>
<p>John swallows, barely able to make the action subtle as his mind races.  It’s hardly the <i>first</i> time he’s received such an offer from a client, but usually they’re <i>at least</i> an <i>actual</i> client first, and most often they’re a client he’s known for a bit and/or there’s another – better acquainted – member of the firm there to bridge the gap.  And… well, granted he <i>just watched</i> the other man – but… but there’s always the <i>chance</i>… he can hardly <i>prove</i> it was <i>actually</i> cocaine that the man – <i>king</i>, fucking <i>hell</i> the man’s a fucking <i>foreign dignitary</i>, why the <i>hell</i> would he want to set a trap for some rookie lawyer and –</p>
<p>“Oh, <i>honestly</i>.”</p>
<p>A gasp escapes him before he can stop it, his eyes refocusing on the other and –</p>
<p>The king has leaned all the way back, his head resting on the top of the couch and his expression vaguely exasperated as he stares and waves the little packet in the air (like someone waggling a tennis ball at a disobliging puppy).  “This <i>was</i> a little treat, but <i>now</i>…”  There’s a little sigh and the expression shifts, becoming almost sympathetic.  “<i>Please</i>, take it and take the <i>edge off</i> before you <i>snap</i>.”  The packet waves again, and those overwhelming eyes roll up dramatically towards the heavens and “You kids today,” sighs out incredulously, “so <i>high strung</i>.”</p>
<p>John… swallows again suddenly frozen as he stares at the tableau before him – still undecided, still reeling to determine whether it’s a <i>trap</i>, still weighing the whole situation… and yet, above all, he just desperately wants to <i>capture</i> the image before him; to paint, to sketch, to photograph, <i>anything</i>, he just <i><b>wants</b></i> –</p>
<p>“Ah.”</p>
<p>He shifts, eyes sharp and lips twitching back upwards, and John freezes as the other man pulls himself up – ever so slightly straightening – and spreads his legs out a bit, his fingers opening the packet delicately and –</p>
<p>And…</p>
<p>John’s brain… just… stops.</p>
<p>And all he can do is stare as Pagan draws a neat line of cocaine up the length of his thigh.</p>
<p>At least that’s all he can do until – the empty packet tossed offhandedly over one broad shoulder – the older man locks eyes with him and crooks two fingers in a <i>very</i> deliberate summons.</p>
<p>“Come on, then.”</p>
<p>He –</p>
<p>John’s at the other man’s knees; he doesn’t remember standing or crossing the distance but he’s <i>there</i> and…</p>
<p>A soft chuckle reaches him, and when the dark eyes curl upwards in amusement and the long fingers causally point downward… he follows.</p>
<p>He obeys.</p>
<p>Sinks to his knees.</p>
<p>And then he just <i>stares</i> – eyes uplifted and held open, lips parted and trembling, and –</p>
<p>A hand – large and strong and with so <i>much <b>blood</b></i> beneath its immaculate guise – comes to rest on the back of his head, and when it presses him down he obeys without a thought.</p>
<p>“There we are,” rumbles out from above him (from below and <i>around</i> him) and the rush of it – of the silk and honey voice, of the ghost of tiger teeth, of the <i><b>praise</b></i> – hits him so hard he barely notices the cocaine.</p>
<p>“Isn’t that better?”</p>
<p>He breathes.</p>
<p>“Just a bit more, now.”</p>
<p>Fingers curl in his hair, nails along his scalp, guiding him upwards.</p>
<p>“There.”</p>
<p>The fingers tug, lifting his head upwards, and the guiding hand shifts to cradle his chin – thumb brushing away the stray powder as a pleased purr rolls over and through him.</p>
<p>“Good boy.”</p>
<p>And –</p>
<p>John shudders.</p>
<p>Gasps.</p>
<p>And – staring up into those dark, consuming eyes – he pushes up on his knees and reaches out –</p>
<p>The hand at his chin <i>stop</i> him.</p>
<p>“No.”</p>
<p>And all at once the world <i>freezes</i>.</p>
<p>Blood cold, lips parted, eyes wide and hand hovering – caught at the wrist by an unyielding grip – just inches from the other man’s fly, John can’t manage to do anything but <i>shake</i> for a moment before – <i>finally</i> – he forces his eyes back upwards and –</p>
<p>There’s no anger in the face above, no <i>disgust</i>, and John sags for a moment – pure <i>relief</i> flooding through him and pushing air back into his lungs.</p>
<p>But only for a moment.</p>
<p>And then the <i>disappointment</i> sinks in, alongside the confused and desperate <i>shame</i> (<i>What did I do wrong, I can do <b>better</b>, I can <b>be</b></i><b> good</b><i>…</i>) and <i>need</i>, and he can’t stop (doesn’t <i>want</i> to stop) the whine that rises up from his chest because –</p>
<p>“Not on the menu, dear boy.”</p>
<p>Something in the other’s expression – in the upward tilt of his lips, the wry twist of his eyebrows, the soft lift of… of fond amusement and something like <i>sympathy</i> in his eyes – catches John off guard, knocks him even <i>more</i> off balance; shame and disappointment running up against <i>confusion</i>, and he barely manages to pull himself together enough to stammer “But –”</p>
<p>There’s a velvety chuckle, the sound quite at odds with the present situation, and the grip on his chin relaxes even as the grip on his wrist firmly guides his hand away.</p>
<p>“Surprising as it may seem,” the voice is light, casual, and borderline condescending with its note of expository mockery (and just a <i>hint</i> of reproach), “I’m afraid I’m not attracted to men in the <i>slightest</i>.”  And then there’s a touch at his lips – the gentle pressure of a thumb holding a sound in place before John’s lips have finished parting – and the man’s eyes are <i>gleaming</i> again as he tilts his head, stares down, and smiles a bit more gently.  “Not even sweet, witty men who look like works of art when they kneel at my feet.”</p>
<p>And there’s a pause after that – silence as John flushes (with embarrassment, with shame, with delight and with <i>arousal</i>) and the gently <i>cruel</i> man above him stares down and –</p>
<p>“You know… were circumstances different I might actually be tempted by you.”  The thumb moves, gliding back and forth over his lips.  “You <i>are</i>…” a flash of teeth in the smile and a little hum of approval, “<i><b>exquisite</b></i>.”</p>
<p>And then the thumb falls from his lips, a moment before he can manage to <i>taste</i> it, and when a little sob escapes him there’s a gentle shushing and a comforting stroke over his hair.  “As it happens, though…” the eyes above him (when John forces his back open to look) are actually soft, are genuine and… “I’m something of a ‘one and done’ sort of man.”</p>
<p>It’s…</p>
<p>John ducks his head sharply – <i>wanting</i> so desperately to fully <i>escape</i> from this whole clusterfuck as fast as possible, and only managing to slump lower and press his face against the side of the older man’s knee.</p>
<p>At least he’s not <i>crying</i>.</p>
<p><i>Yet</i>.</p>
<p>He’s trying to pull himself together, trying to get his breathing and muscles back under control so he can <i>get <b>out</b></i> (and… and the party <i>has</i> to still be going – all he has to do is stumble around a little, look vulnerable, and someone’s <i>bound</i> to pounce) when –<br/>
There’s a long sigh, fingers carding slowly through his hair that simultaneously sooth and torture him.</p>
<p>“Oh… you poor, overwrought boy.”</p>
<p>He flinches, instinctively.  But… but it’s not… disdain in the words.  Or disgust or disappointment.  It’s not even <i>amusement</i> now.  It’s…</p>
<p>The fingers still, suddenly, still curled in his hair; and when John looks up – almost <i>pulled</i> up by the weight of the atmosphere – the dark eyes staring down at him are… thoughtful.  And just a bit –</p>
<p>There’s a hum, a slow blink, and a slight nod as the king apparently reaches some decision and –</p>
<p>“Alright then.”</p>
<p>And John barely even has a moment to blink before one large, <i>powerful</i> hand closes around his throat.</p>
<p>Terror renders the world in stark clarity – every detail around him crystal clear.</p>
<p>And it might as well all be shadows, because the only thing he has any desire to focus on is the hand on his throat and the face above him.</p>
<p>“Is this what you need, dear boy?”</p>
<p>He <i>gasps</i> – there’s no real pressure on his throat yet so he’s able – and…</p>
<p>The dark, gleaming eyes above him curl upwards in pleased satisfaction as he leans into the hand, and the smiling lips pull back in a feline smile as the king purrs.  “I thought so.”</p>
<p>And then the hand <i>squeezes</i>.</p>
<p>John can’t <i>breathe</i>.</p>
<p>And the world falls away and rushes over him all at once.</p>
<p>It feels as though he’s plummeting through a kaleidoscope – the world hopelessly muddled and hyper-focused in succession or at the same time, colors exploding into shades of gray and shadows vibrant enough to sear his eyes, everything twisting and turning and tilting wildly as it slows to a crawl that races past him, pain and pleasure writhing together like maenads at a Bacchanal, blindness and deafness and senselessness smothering him as the pure clarity of the world threatens to overwhelm him.  He is burning and freezing, falling and rising, the hand at his throat crushing as the drugs tear him apart from the inside and –</p>
<p>It’s <i><b>perfect</b></i>.</p>
<p>John has… no idea how much time passes – seconds or minutes or hours, time becoming meaningless as it oscillates between glacial sluggishness and agonizing acceleration.</p>
<p>He is… aware (sometimes vaguely, sometimes aware of nothing else) that he is occasionally being spoken to, that sometimes the hand at his throat relaxes and he can <i>breathe</i>.</p>
<p>It occurs, in one of those moments, how easily the man could kill him without fearing any inconvenience.  If he had enough time to linger on it, John thinks he might actually be unsettled by how much the idea <i>appeals</i> to him... but then the hand closes again, and he doesn’t think of <i>anything</i> for some time.</p>
<p>When the hand relaxes, <i>doesn’t</i> squeeze again, and his head is gently guided to lay on one lithely muscled thigh, he barely notices.<br/>
Likewise, when the hand moves up to his head – starts petting, carding through his hair, scratching along his scalp – he’s barely able to press upwards into the touch, and the <i>sound</i> that comes from his burning throat is…</p>
<p>There’s a coo above him – soothing and sympathetic and oh so very satisfied – and, when the fingers curl and <i>tug</i> at his hair, <i>somehow</i> John finds it in himself to lift his head and look upwards.</p>
<p>“There now,” head propped with lazy elegance on one hand, the king looks down at him with a <i>painfully</i> fond smile and tenderly brushes sweaty hair back off his face with the other hand.</p>
<p>“How are we feeling now?  Better?”  And John doesn’t even have time to react (can’t even fully <i>think</i> about how he <i>should</i> react) when there’s a knowing nod and the hand pulls away from him – a <i>whine</i> strangling from his throat before (with a little laugh) the hand returns with a handkerchief to… (<i>Oh <b>fuck</b></i>) to wipe the <i>saliva</i> from his mouth and chin.  “Of <i>course</i> we are.”</p>
<p>And it’s… it’s <i>too <b>much</b></i>… he <i><b>can’t</b></i>…</p>
<p>The hand returns to the back of his head, and with a grateful <i>sob</i> John lets himself be pushed back down to rest his head on the older man’s thigh again.</p>
<p>“Hush now,” says the voice above and around him.</p>
<p>And, seeing no reason not to, John obeys.</p>
<p>It takes only moments for slumber to claim him.</p>
<p>################</p>
<p>When he starts waking up again he’s still on his knees, still resting his head against one firm thigh, and the hand is still petting him like he’s a pampered dog.</p>
<p>His legs are cramping and numb, his head is pounding, and his throat is <i>burning</i>.</p>
<p>He is <i>in <b>agony</b></i>.</p>
<p>And he can’t remember the last time he’s felt so <i><b>good</b></i>.</p>
<p>“Hello there.”</p>
<p>He hums in response, the sound scratchy and painful, and it’s only then that he realizes he’s nuzzling sleepily against the other man’s leg.</p>
<p>There’s an answering hum – not quite a chuckle but close – and after a moment of continued petting two fingers slip under his chin, just the faintest pressure behind them that guides a reluctant John in lifting  his head.  </p>
<p>He looks up through glassy, heavy-lidded eyes as the king slowly tilts his head from side to side and slightly back, tsking and shaking his head a little.</p>
<p>“Oh dear, we’ll need to find you a scarf or something, before you leave.”</p>
<p>The tone is stern and regretful, but the eyes looking down on him are bright and satisfied enough to make John arch his neck and whimper as prettily as he can.  It wins him a huff of laughter; which is <i>not</i> his preference usually but (to his own muted surprise) this time he finds that it sets something <i>warm</i> inside his stomach that…</p>
<p>“Otherwise,” the king continues abruptly, one eyebrow arching elegantly as his expression turns a little conspiratorial, “it might look as though I were <i>ungrateful</i>, even after how <i>beautifully</i> you performed in court today.”</p>
<p>A shiver runs through his skin at the praise, and – mind finally starting to clear – John looks up with his most guileless smile.  “I’d have to take them to court for slander.”  The words burn and creak, but he keeps them flowing easily; and when the brow above him arches higher he simply brightens his smile.  “After all… we <i>can’t</i> have people saying that South Asian hospitality is dead.”</p>
<p>Above him the king’s eyes widen slightly, and silence falls for <i>just</i> long enough for it to sink in that he might have just <i>royally</i> fucked up.</p>
<p>And then the older man <i>beams</i> at him, head shaking as he chuckles and “Oh, sweet boy; you are a <i>delight</i>,” washes out over him like sunshine.  “You know, I really am tempted to keep you –”</p>
<p>And –</p>
<p>John blinks upwards, breath catching (all on its own) as the king trails off, his expression going blank…</p>
<p>And then <i>Pagan</i> blinks.</p>
<p>Tilts his head to the side.</p>
<p>And then, slowly turning to stare intently into John’s eyes, he <i>smiles</i>.</p>
<p>“Well… why not?”</p>
<p>And John…</p>
<p>The older man sits up, ever so slightly, from his indolent sprawl – rising and leaning over him, smile soft and hungry and eyes glittering, and John’s never felt so much like something small and vulnerable beneath a tiger’s paw before in his life.</p>
<p>The fingers under his chin skim along his jawline, gliding back to rest beneath his ear, the other fingers curling over his jugular and the thumb brushing over his chin.  “I could always use a good lawyer…”</p>
<p>John stares upwards, his mouth open and dry, his pulse racing and –</p>
<p>“Well?”</p>
<p>He gasps.</p>
<p>And Pagan Min smiles, his thumb rubbing gentle circles from chin to jaw, and <i>purrs</i>.  “What do you say, sweet little <i>golden boy</i>… would you serve a king?”</p>
<p>And John…</p>
<p>Stares.</p>
<p>Breathless.</p>
<p>Aching.</p>
<p><i>Terrified</i>.</p>
<p>And more <i>alive</i> then he can ever remember being.</p>
<p>He looks up into Pagan’s eyes and <i>smiles</i>.</p>
<p>And he knows <i><b>exactly</b></i> what to say.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Chapter Warnings:  Recreational Drug Use, Unnegotiated One-Sided Non-sexual D/s Scene, Less than Stellar BDSM Etiquette, Breath Play/Erotic Asphyxiation, Reference to Self-Harm, Reference to Child Abuse, Vague Reference to Homophobia, John <strike>Duncan's</strike> Seed's Many Issues and Traumas, and The 1%.</p>
<p>
  <i>In which a lost soul meets a fallen one, and - for better or worse - they find their broken pieces fit strangely well together.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Or in which John Seed's got a praise-kink and daddy-complex long enough to span the Earth, Pagan Min is (platonically) in <b>love</b> with this sassy needy brilliant boy (and, incidentally, kinda in need of a good lawyer; <b>seriously</b>, the things his body-doubles have been getting up to lately...), and there will <b>100%</b> be massive ramifications for this down the road.<br/>Featuring Paul "De Pleur" Harmon, who's just along for the ride and <b>loving</b> it; and <b>not</b> featuring Joseph Seed, who - several years from now - is going to be Very Put Out over his little brother not being in Georgia/recruital for Apocalypse Preparations. </i>
  <br/>
  <i>
    <span class="small">(Also not featuring Ajay Ghale, who's is going to be <b>a lot</b> more conflicted when he gets to Kyrat, no thanks to this <b>gorgeous</b> and <b>very</b> eager to please lawyer who is <b>absolutely</b> giving him bedroom eyes but... but also being respectful of his personal space and autonomy?  And keeps bringing him... <b>really nice</b> care packages and stuff?  Like this is <b>obviously</b> a trick or a ploy or whatever... but... but he's just <b>really hot</b>, ok?!  And <b>obviously</b> Ajay's not going to betray everyone because of one sexy lawyer.  But... there's nothing wrong with <b>looking</b>, and Ajay's going through a lot at the moment he's allowed to look at the hot guy every once in a while just get off his back already!)</span>
  </i>
  <br/>
  <i>
    <span class="small">(John Duncan, personal lawyer to King Min of Kyrat, is <b>100%</b> ok with being inherited by his boss' heir, and - after a <b>Talk</b> with said boss on why he does <b>not</b> get to make the first move - is grudgingly content to sit back and wait for his services and "services" to be called upon.  Doesn't mean he can't play nice and flirt a bit to hopefully speed things along; really, it doesn't mean that, he asked and got permission so long as he respects the prince's <b>Boundaries</b>.)</span>
  </i>
</p>
<p><i>In other news, today's chapter is brought to you by - my brain's increasingly desperate attempts to ship John Seed with Pagan Min... while simultaneously beating said ship away with a chair and shrieking "But Pagan's</i> <b>straight!</b>  <i>And completely monogamous for Ishwari!!!"  *sigh*  Seriously, y'all, this is so... <b>frustrating</b>.  I mean... you've got <b>Pagan Min</b> - objectively the <b>Daddiest</b> of all Far Cry characters (sorry not sorry, Joseph - even you have to admit it's true) and... and you just <b>can't</b> ship him with <b>anyone</b> but his canonical love interest because he's also the <b>one</b> person who's all "I have known True Love and lost it - and my heart will only ever be hers."  Which... which, yeah, that's one of the things I <b>love</b> about Pagan; but... but <b>ships</b>, y'all.</i>  <b>Ships.</b>  TT^TT</p>
<p>
  <i>Well, shipping/head-canon frustrations aside... I love this one.  Two of my favorite disaster boys together and... ah!  I love it.  Hope y'all liked it too, and I'll see you next week!  Until then be safe and well and stay awesome!  &lt;3</i>
</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. The Devout and The Wildcard</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Explain to me <i>again</i> –” he doesn’t want it explained again, “– how all this happened.”</p>
<p>“Well, see now, it was like this –”</p>
<p>Sabal has served the will of Kyra his entire life.  He has fought and suffered and bled – on his own and alongside his brothers (and now sisters) of the Golden Path.  He has stood against the full evil of the Mad King’s tyranny and never blinked – never shied away from the horrors and depravities that Min has wrought upon his home.</p>
<p>And <i>yet</i>…</p>
<p>“– and I was all like ‘Oh shit <i>that’s</i> where I left the grenades,’ and Ajay was like ‘Wait what’ and then the bridge started to explode so –”</p>
<p>Sabal has endured things no human should ever experience, seen things no human should ever face, and <i>done</i> things no human should ever <i>know</i> in his fight to free his home.  And yet… he has <i>never</i> known pain like that which he is currently experiencing – listening to the mad, <i>idiotic</i> ramblings of the American before him.</p>
<p>“– which was when the birds all took off flyin’ everywhere, which was <i>crazy</i>, man, ‘cause the most of ‘em, well, they were still on <i>fire</i>, so then all kinds of shit started goin’ off – I <i>swear</i>, it looked like that one time that my cousin Sharky burned down that firework stand, only, you know, with more birds on fire and without the squirrels –”</p>
<p>How?</p>
<p>How can any one person produce <i>so many</i> words while ultimately saying <i><b>nothing</b></i>?</p>
<p>“– and then I was all like ‘Freedom is the right of all sentient beings’ and Ajay was all ‘Oh Hurk, you’re so wise and awesome and shit’ and then we… we <i>totally</i> high-fived, man, we did that, Ajay <i>definitely</i> didn’t leave me hangin’ –”</p>
<p>Nothing that made <i>sense</i> anyway.</p>
<p>“– like when my buddy Nick tried to see how long he could fly his plane upside-down without crashin’ or passin’ out or anythin’, <i>that</i> kind of crazy awesome plan, you get what I’m sayin’ here, man –”</p>
<p>Kyra damn it, Sabal should’ve taken the warning when he saw Amita (the absolute <i>traitor</i>) take a <i>flying leap</i> into the bed of an outgoing truck.</p>
<p>And for the harmony and unity of the Gold Path, Amita should find it in her heathen soul to <i>pray</i> that Sabal never receives confirmation that she’d been pointing and <i>laughing</i> at him as her getaway vehicle sped off.</p>
<p>“– so I judo-flipped the tiger (which was like, <i>totally</i> easy, by the way) and Ajay pulled me up onto the elephant and we ramped it off the cliff –”</p>
<p>He <i>knows</i> she’d been pointing and laughing, <i>obviously</i> – it <i>was <b>Amita</b></i>.  He just… can’t <i>prove</i> it.</p>
<p>Yet.</p>
<p>“– which was when the <i>ninja</i> came through the roof –”</p>
<p>At least… Sabal <i>thinks</i> she’d been pointing…</p>
<p>“– and that’s when Ajay started screaming about ‘Rock-Chaka-Khan,’ which was <i>weird</i> and honestly he sounded kinda crazy, but the big blinged-out tiger that started fighting with us was really cool –”</p>
<p>Wait!</p>
<p>Had Amita been <i>flipping him <b>off</b></i>?!</p>
<p>“– some tiny chick in a white dress, I don’t know where she came from but she smelled nice –”</p>
<p>That <i>bitch</i>.</p>
<p>“– <i>so many bears</i> –”</p>
<p>She <i><b>had</b></i> been flipping him off!</p>
<p>“– and actually I don’t think that one guy’s even dead, I think he’s like a Highlander or somethin’ –”</p>
<p>Unbe<i>live</i>able.</p>
<p>“– which was when things started glowin’ and floatin’ –”</p>
<p>That settles it – first opportunity that presents itself Sabal is <i>consolidating</i> the power structure of the Gold Path.</p>
<p>“– and Ajay was all ‘Hurk!  My sexy and glorious best brosef, what did you <i>by no fault of your own</i> just <i><b>do</b></i> –‘”</p>
<p>Clearly Amita has brought it upon herself.</p>
<p>“– and I was all ‘nose goes!’”</p>
<p>Sabal’s hands are tied.</p>
<p>Tied.</p>
<p>And no one can argue otherwise.</p>
<p>“And <i>that’s</i> how it happened.”</p>
<p>Wait… what?</p>
<p>Sabal blinks, rising from his ruminations and returning his focus to the situation at hand.</p>
<p>Standing in front of him the idiot American is grinning widely.  On either side the two Golden Path soldiers who had been too slow to flee are staring in bewildered horror.  On the table in front of him sits the… crux of the current issue.  And (feeling like a sailor lost at sea – who thought he was holding onto a plank of wood only to suddenly and inexplicably find himself clutching exactly thirty-three bound-together copies of the official biography of Helen Hunt) Sabal finds himself scrambling to makes some sense out of the generally implausible and frequently <i>impossible</i> details that had just been flung at him.</p>
<p>The whole situation feels very familiar.</p>
<p>Which is, frankly, not <i>his</i> fault; because how <i>anyone</i> could be expected to listen to <i>that story</i> in its entirety – without either regularly tuning it out or <i>going <b>mad</b></i> – is a question Kyra herself could not answer.</p>
<p>“So,” he says at last, because as much as he would <i>love</i> to just walk out and try to drink all memories of this afternoon away, Sabal has a <i>duty</i> to his people.  And because if he leaves <i>now</i> then he’s pretty sure it will count as a victory for Amita.  <i>Somehow</i>.  And that <i>cannot</i> be.  “What you are telling me is…”</p>
<p>And here he has to stop for a fortifying breath, because from what details he has managed to glean…</p>
<p>
  <i>Kyra give me strength.</i>
</p>
<p>“In your attempts to make amends… to <i>the monkeys</i> –”</p>
<p>“On account of the explodin’.”</p>
<p>A muscle twitches below Sabal’s left eye.  “… Yes.  You –”</p>
<p>“And the drownin’.”</p>
<p>The twitching intensifies.  “Right.”  He pauses, waits expectantly, and then finally continues.  “You accidental-”</p>
<p>“Oh, <i>and</i> the thing with the –”</p>
<p>“<i>Accidentally</i> –”  The word hisses out between his clenched teeth as he tries to bring pulse down.  <i><b>Don’t</b> stab him, Sabal, you are not Pagan Min, you don’t <b>just stab</b> people because they annoy you.  Even if they <b>deserve</b> it.</i> “– profaned a sacred temple –”</p>
<p>“Of the Monkey god.”</p>
<p><i>Kyra fucking damn this stupid bastard.</i>  Sabal’s eye is fully twitching, now.  Which he would normally loathe to have happen in front of witnesses, but in this case one witness is just staring slack jawed and the other has buried his face in one hand, so Sabal thinks he has a pass.  <i>The fucking ‘monkey god,’ <b>honestly</b>.</i></p>
<p>“<i>Yes.</i>”  He fully hisses, at length.  “<i><b>That</b></i>.”</p>
<p>The American grins all the more brightly and nods.</p>
<p>
  <i>I should’ve jumped into a fucking truck.</i>
</p>
<p>“And, in response to this desecration, the…”  <i>You can <b>do</b> this, Sabal; be <b>strong</b>,</i> “the Monkey god…”  <i>Oh blessed Kyra the words <b>taste</b> of sacrilege and <b>failure</b>; also, I think I may have just thrown up a little,</i> “used its… ‘Monkey godly powers…”  <i>Yes… yes, that’s <b>definitely</b> vomit,</i> “to magically transform Ajay Ghale… into <i><b>this</b></i>.”</p>
<p>Deliberately, Sabal punctuates his words by pointing at the current resident of the table.</p>
<p>‘This’ promptly responds to the pointed finger with <i>intense</i> furor.</p>
<p>And still the American <i>grins</i>.  “Aw see, you got it, man!  And I gotta tell you man, it was <i>wild</i>, like… like this one time back on the Rook Islands when I totally –”</p>
<p>
  <i>
    <b>No.</b>
  </i>
</p>
<p>“And you <i>saw</i> this happen?”  He charges into the new flood of words like a rhino into a firefight – dignity sacrificed in favor of <i>survival</i>.  And then, a moment of fearful realization hitting him as the American’s mouth opens, he jumps in again to clarify.  “The <i>transformation</i> that you say happened <i>here</i>, in <i>Kyrat</i>, <i><b>this morning</b></i>.”</p>
<p>There’s a moment of silence.</p>
<p>Which…. which that <i>should</i> be a good thing.</p>
<p>Should.</p>
<p>“Well,” the American says at last, sending a new twitch through Sabal’s eye and making one of the soldiers whimper in fear and pain.  “I mean… there was a lot of stuff glowin’ and explodin’ and all kinds of smoke everywhere, so like… I didn’t like... <i><b>see</b></i> see the actual transformin’ itself takin’ place, as such.”</p>
<p>There’s another moment of silence, and all Sabal can do is stare through it.</p>
<p>
  <i>This… must be how Pagan Mind feels.  When he stabs people, this… it’s… this man is making me feel the same things as <b>Pagan Min</b>.</i>
</p>
<p>“'As such...’”  He says at length, the words only <i>just</i> winning out over the impulse to stab.  “Or,” he clarifies, “not <i>at all</i>?”</p>
<p>There’s another pause.</p>
<p>Followed by a (somewhat abashed, admittedly) grin.</p>
<p>And a <i><b>shrug</b></i>.</p>
<p>And one of those see-sawing midair hand gestures.</p>
<p>Sabal takes a long, <i>deep</i> breath.  And then another.  And then a third because he has <i>never</i> wanted to stab someone so much in his <i>life</i>.</p>
<p>“So…”  <i>You are not Pagan Min, you are not Amita, keep calm and <b>don’t stab</b>,</i> “why… <i>precisely</i>, do you believe that… <i>this</i>…” he gestures towards ‘this’ again and ‘this’ snarls and makes an attempt for his fingers, “is actually Ajay Ghale, as opposed to –”</p>
<p>“Well c’mon, man!”  The interjection seems to restore some of the American’s idiotic implacability.  “Just <i>look</i> at him!”</p>
<p>Sabal does so.</p>
<p>‘Him’ looks back, teeth gnawing madly at the lock on the cage and frothing saliva flying wildly from the writhing maw.</p>
<p>Sabal looks back up.</p>
<p>Any reticence has burned away, leaving only a smile as bright as the sun and as vacuous as outer space.  “That’s <i>totally</i> Ajay, man, it’s <i>obvious!</i>”</p>
<p>For the first time in a <i>long</i> time… Sabal thinks he might weep.</p>
<p>He <i>wants</i> to weep.</p>
<p>He wants to <i>stab</i> the man grinning at him.</p>
<p>And he <i>really</i> wants to give up, flee the house (through the <i>window</i> if needs be), and escape in the bed of a truck to drink the whole experience away – and <i>damn</i> his image and reputation and whatever Amita might say.</p>
<p>But…</p>
<p>“But why…”  </p>
<p>The words taste foul in his mouth, and one of the soldiers <i>whimpers</i> when it becomes clear he is continuing the exchange.  </p>
<p>“Would the…”  </p>
<p>But it’s too late.  </p>
<p>“<i><b>Monkey</b> god</i>…”  </p>
<p>He <i><b>needs</b></i> to <i><b>know</b></i>.</p>
<p>“Punish a defiler of its temple by turning him into… a <i><b>honey badger</b></i>?”</p>
<p>The words hang in the air.</p>
<p>Sabal stares.</p>
<p>The American stares back.</p>
<p>One soldier whimper and the other very audibly refuses to do the same.</p>
<p>And, in their midst, the caged and furious honey badger currently being identified as a divinely transformed Ajay Ghale tears at his bars of imprisonment and <i><b>snarls</b></i>.</p>
<p>Then, just as the stillness seems ready to explode (just to have something to do with itself)…</p>
<p>The American shrugs, his beaming grin fading into a sort of philosophical solemnity.  “Monkey god works in mysterious ways, man.”</p>
<p>And then he <i>beams</i> again, as though he has just spoken words of profound wisdom.</p>
<p>Sabal continues staring, reasonably certain that he has just heard something inside his brain break and –</p>
<p>“Get out.”</p>
<p>There’s a slow blink, followed by a wide grin.  “Ok, man, sure thing, I got some stuff to do anyway, communin’ with my monkey brethren and sisteren and all and – hey, just make sure you take good care of Ajay, ok man, ‘cause like, I got some stuff for us to do and it’s gonna be <i>wild</i>, man, I mean like real crazy awesome sh-”</p>
<p>“<i>Get out</i> before I <i>stab you</i>.”</p>
<p>“Right, sure, I gotchu man, I actually get that a lot, it’s cool, like this one time on the Rook Islands I went to hang with my tat-bro Jason and he –”</p>
<p>One of the soldiers slams the door, cutting off any sigh of the idiot American and most of his voice and thereby becoming Sabal’s new favorite person, and before long the building has been fallen under the sway of blissful silence.</p>
<p>Well… <i>nearly</i>…</p>
<p>Slowly, Sabal looks down at the caged honey badger, vaguely aware of both soldiers coming up on either side of him.</p>
<p>The honey badger continues to savage the interior of its cage.</p>
<p><i>It isn’t him.</i>  Sabal stares, one hand rising instinctively to clasp gently over his mouth and hold the lower half of his face.  <i>It’s… not… <b>possible</b>…</i></p>
<p>Slowly his hand falls away.</p>
<p>
  <i>It’s not possible.</i>
</p>
<p>And he <i>sighs</i>.</p>
<p>“Ajay?”</p>
<p>The honey badger’s slavering cuts off in an abrupt snarl, the beast’s eyes darting to fix on him and its entire body freezing in place where it clings (by fangs and claws) to the roof of the cage.</p>
<p>
  <i>No.  Not him.</i>
</p>
<p>He swallows, <i>hard</i>.  “Were you…”  One eye twitches, and he swallows again against the stab of pain shooting behind it.  “Brother, were you transformed into a honey badger as punishment for defiling a temple of the Monkey god?”</p>
<p>Silence falls once more as the honey badger stares <i>directly</i> into Sabal’s eyes.</p>
<p>And then that same silence dies a horrifically violent death as the caged beast <i>explodes</i> into violence – shrieking and hissing, clawing and biting and <i>beating</i> against the bars with so much savagery that it <i>propels</i> the cage a good foot <i>straight upwards</i>.</p>
<p>Sabal recoils, alongside the soldiers, and narrowly manages to avoid a blow from the rising cage.</p>
<p>And if he shrieks aloud in shock and terror… he is <i>confident</i> that neither man will say anything to anyone <i>or</i> judge him  in the slightest.</p>
<p>Not in the least because they’re both clinging to him like frightened children.</p>
<p>At length they separate, all taking a few more steps back from the enraged beast and its turbulent cage, and Sabal clears his throat (with great dignity) and speaks.  “So…”</p>
<p>And then he stops speaking – because he honestly doesn’t know what in the Kyra damned <i>hell</i> to even add to that.</p>
<p>Luckily, one of the soldiers runs with it.  “Honestly?  That could mean anything.”</p>
<p>Sabal feels, more than sees, the other man nod in agreement.  “Ajay Ghale <i>is</i> a very… <i>stoic</i> person, true.  But… if what supposedly happened… <i>happened</i>…”</p>
<p>The honey badger looses another shriek and resumes savaging the locked door of its prison.</p>
<p>And the last words still hang, unfinished, not <i>needing</i> to be finished… but Sabal finishes them anyway.  “This <i>would</i> be a perfectly reasonable reaction.”</p>
<p>Sabal and his soldiers stare.</p>
<p>The (potentially Ajay-esque) honey badger begins gnawing on the hinges of the cage’s door.</p>
<p>And… perhaps it’s Sabal’s  imagination but… the beast… <i>does</i> seem to be… <i><b>fiercer</b></i> than most…</p>
<p>
  <i>Oh Kyra <b>damn</b> it all.</i>
</p>
<p>Yielding all pretense of dignity, Sabal drops his face into his hands with an agonized groan.  “One of you, go get me a <i>priest</i>.”  There’s an <i>immediate</i> flurry of footsteps, followed by a sound of twisting metal, and Sabal emerges from his hand-shaped cocoon of safety to shout, “And a new cage” at the rapidly closing doorway.</p>
<p>Which then leaves him, alone in the little house but for a screaming headache and an enraged honey badger who may or may not also be the Son of Mohan.</p>
<p><i>Somehow,</i> Sabal decides, giving up and wearily sitting down on a weapons crate to watch the honey badger rage and wait for spiritual guidance to come and do its damn job so he can get back to doing his, <i>this is <b>all</b> Amita’s fault.</i></p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Chapter Warnings:  None!  Again!  Thiiiiiiis is getting weird for me.  ^-^"</p>
<p>
  <i>In which certain residents of Kyrat are having a Very Bad Day, certain other residents were smart enough to get out of Dodge while the getting was good, and The Dudebro abides.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>So... yeah.  I <b>kinda</b> cheated on this one, given how Hurk actually <b>was</b> in Far Cry 4... buuuuuuut he's also in other Far Cry games, and there's no <b>proof</b> that he and Sabal ever interacted, so... <b>loopholes!</b>  Also rule of funny.  d(^-^)b</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Incidentally, as to whether or not that honey badger really was Ajay...?  Well, the way I see it there's two possibilities.  <b>One</b> - that honey badger is totally Ajay Ghale, caught in the crossfire and transformed by the Monkey God as punishment for the defilement of one of Its temples; which... it <b>is</b> Far Cry, so.  Or <b>Two</b> - that is 100% <b>not</b> Ajay, seriously, it's just some random ass honey badger (that may not even be a <b>male</b> honey badger, honestly) that Hurk saw when the smoke cleared, decided (for some unknowable reason) was Ajay, and then grabbed and popped in a cage and brought back to Sabal; the <b>real</b> Ajay actually got knocked out in some corner <b>just</b> out of plain sight, eventually woke up, and wandered around mildly concussed (and probably still high) for a bit before being found and brought back to the royal palace for safekeeping; over the next few days Sabal and a bunch of priest try (with increasing panic) to de-transform the random ass honey badger, while Ajay (still completely out of it) recovers and bitches about the hell that his life has become while being tender-loving-care-d back to health by a thrilled-to-bits Papa Pagan.  So... y'know, whichever you prefer.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Well, that's this week's spot of madness; hope y'all enjoyed it, and see you next week!  Also, a happy belated Thanksgiving to anyone who celebrates it, and happy in general to anyone who doesn't! ^x^/ &lt;3</i>
</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Soldier...</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <i>Hey everyone, quick heads-up before we get into the chapter - there is a slight chance that I may be forced to take a one week hiatus on this fic, following today; I'm really <b>hoping</b> that won't be the case, but things are a little fiddly right now so... basically there's a chance that Chapter 11 will be posted on the 18th, rather than the 11th as I'd hoped.  Very sorry if that's true (and I'm still hoping it <b>won't</b> be), but I wanted to let y'all know on the off chance.</i>
</p>
<p>[<i><b>EDIT 12/18</b></i><br/><i>Hey y'all, so unfortunately I've had some stuff come up on top of the stuff that had previously come up, and as a result I'm going to have to push the update back again.  I'm really sorry about this, but I will get the next chapter posted as soon as I possibly can.  Hopefully I'll have it up <b>very</b> soon, but (in the event that it takes longer than a week) I want to take this moment to wish you all the <b>happiest</b> of Christmases, holiday seasons, and general end to this year.  Y'all are amazing and I love you, and I hope you are happy and well!  &lt;3</i>]</p>
<p>
  <i>Welp, that bit of <strike>intense frustration</strike> business out of the way, on to the fic!  Aaaaaaaaand another heads-up, actually?  Today's offering will be <b>a lot</b> less fluffy that what we've been up to previously.  So, that said... ARE YOU READY TO ROOK?!</i>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> <br/><i><span class="small">(I'm not sorry.)</span></i></p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s amazing how quickly the world can change.</p>
<p>The air around him is hot and wet, pressing against his face like a steaming towel and making it hard to breathe.  Beside him and through the darkness Jacob can hear Nag struggling for breath of her own – the rough, pained gasps all the worse to hear when he’d <i>seen</i> her injuries before they were plunged into darkness.</p>
<p>Jacob grits his teeth and tries to tell himself it could be <i>worse</i> for her.  After all, the kid hasn’t made a sound in hours.</p>
<p>Unsurprisingly this doesn’t help.</p>
<p>Jacob grits his teeth, breathes through the rage and the fear and the helplessness, and keeps working at the shackles holding him in place.</p>
<p>It’s amazing how quickly the world can change.  One moment Jacob was on a plane with the rest of his squad – half reading some smutty paperback he’d found (read: claimed from the trash in an act of desperation after MacDougal had thrown it away in disgust) and half listening to Leconte and Foster and Nag bitch at each other over basketball, while Miller sat on the sidelines and sneakily added fuel to the fire, the LT and MacDougal studiously ignored the juvenile bickering around them, and the boots sat wide-eyed and quiet in their little cluster, when –</p>
<p>Funny thing about the military… recruiters rarely mention how frequently you risk your aircraft being shot down – not the basic Army ones and <i>certainly</i> not the ones who want you to became a paratrooper, no sir.  Which does make sense, honestly; because going off <i>Jacob’s</i> military service getting shot down happens a <i>lot</i> and who in the hell would sign on for that willingly?</p>
<p>At least this time it’s not <i>snowing</i>.</p>
<p>Though…</p>
<p>There’s a burst of sound from Nag – a wet gasp that turns into a <i>wetter</i> cough and keeps going, until the whole area seems to be shaking from the violent force of it.</p>
<p>Jacob waits the fit out, teeth gritting together and as much emotion as he dares channeled into pulling at his restraints.  Then, when the hacking coughs <i>finally</i> fade out, Jacob stills himself and (studiously ignoring the way his muscles are starting to feel like overcooked pasta) takes the risk of speaking.</p>
<p>“Nag?”  His voice sounds too fucking <i>loud</i> in the stillness, even pitched low, after hours of nothing but breathing and coughing and the steady pull of metal against metal.  “You dead over there?”</p>
<p>There’s a long moment of silence after his voice fades out – long enough to make something like a scream build in his chest, held in place only by the wet rasp of her shaky breathing.</p>
<p>Then, about the time Jacob’s fighting down his nerves and getting ready to call out again…</p>
<p>“Hey, Ginger?”  </p>
<p>The voice that comes from the darkness just beyond him is low, trembling, and nearly crumpling in on itself it’s so full of pain.</p>
<p>But it’s still <i>Nag’s voice</i>.</p>
<p>He sags a little against the shackles, at least <i>some</i> of the weight on him lifting.  “Yeah?”</p>
<p>There’s a short laugh, too shaky and <i>far</i> too wet, that breaks off into a pained groan.  “Fuck this island.”</p>
<p>The sheer disdain in her voice shocks a laugh from him, a rough barked sound that he hopes doesn’t sound as close to breaking to her as it does to him.  He shakes his head, shoves down the still growing sense of dread and despair and (getting a grip on the chains to start working them again) opens his mouth for something pithy and potentially encouraging.</p>
<p>And that’s when the door to their cell opens – flooding the room with light and blinding him.</p>
<p>Jacob bites back a cry a second too slow, flinching back and shutting his eyes instinctively against the flash of pain; and from the sounds of wet and raspy profanity off to the side Nag didn’t have much more luck than he had on that front.</p>
<p>He’s forcing his eyes open and blinking against the stars that dance and burst in his eyes, when he hears the sharp clacking of hard-soled shoes, followed by the heavier dull treads of combat boots.  And, a few seconds later when the expensive shoes have stopped a few feet shy of him, a low and appreciative whistle trills out into the air.</p>
<p>“Well now… just <i>look.  At.  <b>You</b></i>.”</p>
<p>The man’s voice – thick with his South African accent and calculating interest – leaves a feeling over Jacob’s skin like he’s just crawled though a sewer.</p>
<p>The feeling is <i>not</i> made better when – a second and some more heavy steps later – there’s a sharp crank, a rasp of metal, and suddenly the chains threaded through the shackles on him go taunt, pulling him sharply upwards until he’s balanced on the balls of his feet with arms stretched to their limits above him and –</p>
<p>Jacob <i>barely</i> suppresses a shudder as a hand presses against the bare skin at his sternum, and his vision <i>finally</i> comes back as the hand is tracing its way down his chest and abdomen.</p>
<p>He bites down a sneer of ‘Buy me a drink first,’ as well as the urge to bite <i>out</i> and see if he can score a hit before the other can pull back (if nothing else he could <i>probably</i> manage a head butt); and <i>hell</i>, if he were on his own he’d probably do it and <i>damn</i> the consequences.</p>
<p>But Nag’s still there; and the kid too (assuming he’s still alive), and…</p>
<p>Jacob bites his tongue, holds still, and settles for staring their captor down.</p>
<p>The man smirks up at Jacob (like he knows <i>exactly</i> what’s going through his mind) and runs a hand up his side to poke and prod at one of his uplifted arms – <i><b>exactly</b></i> like a farmer checking over livestock.</p>
<p>“I’ll admit,” the stranger’s tone is light (borderline friendly, even) as he moves to grasp Jacob by the chin, tilting his head one way and then the other.  “When my man told me about his latest haul – about the big old <i>beast</i> that tore through his pirates like a <i>mad fucking <b>dog</b></i>… I <i>thought</i> he was <i>exaggerating</i>.”  The man learns in a touch, voice dipping low like he’s confiding in Jacob or sharing some little joke with him, “He does that you know.  <i>Dramatic</i>.”  And then, when Jacob doesn’t so much as twitch, the man sighs in feigned disappointment and drops a hand to pat him on the side like he’s a skittish horse.  “But!”  The man <i>finally</i> pulls away, rocking back on his heels as he gazes (grinning) up at Jacob – hands gesturing dramatically towards him, “For <i>once</i> it seems my old friend was right on the money!  You really <i>are</i> a cut above what my boys usually bring in.”</p>
<p>The man pauses meaningfully there, and for his part Jacob would be <i>more</i> than happy to just let the weaselly fuck wait for a reaction until Doomsday, rather than give him <i>anything</i>.</p>
<p>But that’s when Nag starts coughing again.</p>
<p>The guy starts to turn, his glinting eyes going sharper and lips curling into a sneer and –</p>
<p>“Happy to be satisfactory.”</p>
<p>There’s a moment where no one moves.</p>
<p>Then the guy looks back over at Jacob, stares him dead in the eyes… and then throws his head back and <i>laughs</i>.</p>
<p>“<i>This</i> guy!”  He gestures dramatically towards Jacob again, laughter creasing his face and making his shoulders quake, and his eyes are as sharp and dark and calculating as ever when he locks their gazes together again.  “This fucking guy… my boy <i>said</i> he had a good feeling about this one, didn’t he?”  And the clearly rhetorical question’s not even faded into the air when the guy’s back in Jacob’s face again – peering up at him speculatively as he rubs a contemplative hand over his stubbly jaw.  “Really, though…”  Dark, dangerously clever eyes look him up and down, “Built like a brick shithouse, fantastic coloring…”  He frowns, briefly, tongue clicking as he muses “<i>old</i>…”  And then, with a sharp huff of laughter, the grin returns, “but I can think of plenty of buyers who wouldn’t mind that too much; not with the fun of breaking a fellow like <i>you</i> on the table.”</p>
<p>
  <i>Just you <b>fucking</b> –</i>
</p>
<p>“But then…”  the man leans back again, suddenly, rocking on his heels to gaze slowly back up into Jacob’s eyes, his smile going smaller and sharper and crueler and his eyes <i>knowing</i> as he muses, almost to himself, “something tells me you’re not the kind to break.  Not <i>that</i> way.”</p>
<p>The last words hang on the air for a moment, something like a question drawn out in the silence between them.</p>
<p>And just Jacob stares back through it, still and expressionless and imagining how <i>good</i> it would feel to snap the bastard’s neck with his bare hands.</p>
<p>And…</p>
<p>“No.”  The other man shakes his head slowly, smile curling sharply upwards, amusement and <i>understanding</i> burning inside the bright and hungry eyes that hold Jacob’s gaze evenly.  “No, I didn’t think so.”</p>
<p>And then the man – the fucking <i><b>slaver</b></i> – is moving, turning sharply on one heel to pace back and forth before Jacob, hands dancing through the air as he gesticulates flamboyantly.  “I suppose it wouldn’t affect <i>me</i> much, not <i>really</i>, not with you someplace else and the cash already in my hand.  Except… well, having a customer killed by <i>my</i> merchandise?”  He pauses, makes a show of shaking his head, hand still pressed over his own chest as he shoots Jacob a mock-severe look.  “Bad for business, that.”</p>
<p>Jacob doesn’t so much as twitch.  He just imagines putting his boot on the side of that sharp lined face and stepping <i>down</i> until he reaches floor.</p>
<p>After a moment the slaver sighs, wearily, tucking his hands into the pockets of his jeans as he glances upwards and shakes his head again, “And ransom’s out – can’t imagine a grunt’s got family with the kind of money to make it worthwhile,” Jacob’s jaw tenses and his fingers start to curl before he can catch himself, and the slaver’s lips twitch briefly upwards (ugly and cruel and hungry) alongside a gleam in the corner of his eyes before he continues, “and even <i>if</i> the Army’d pay…” a rough, braying scoff, and for a moment all the drama (the joviality, the long-suffering weariness) vanishes – leaving only sharp cunning and brutal calculation in its place.  “No.”</p>
<p>And then the drama returns – hands resurfacing to flitter through the air as he strolls closer, smile beaming cheerily.  “Smart thing then,” and a hand (calloused from untold violence and strong and unyielding as iron) curls around Jacob’s throat, pressure just enough to be a <i>promise</i> rather than a threat, and the smile falls away to turn as cold as the eyes.  “Would be to just kill you.”</p>
<p>The hand on his throat tightens.</p>
<p>And Jacob remains still.</p>
<p>His breath is stopped.</p>
<p>He stares.</p>
<p>“But…” cold eyes burn upwards into his, “that’d be… <i>such</i>… a <i><b>waste</b></i>.”</p>
<p>And then, just like that, the hand is gone from his throat, rising to pat him affectionately on the cheek as the man smiles faintly – the cold, businesslike expression that eases onto his face looking <i>perfectly</i> natural and genuine.</p>
<p>“And I <i>hate</i> waste.”</p>
<p>Beyond Jacob’s sight Nag coughs again (wet and violent and terrifying) and this time the trafficker doesn’t bother looking her way.  </p>
<p>No.  </p>
<p>He just <i>smiles</i>.</p>
<p>“So then,” sighing theatrically, the smaller man rocks back on his heels and passes a hand through his thinning hair, “that leaves <i>me</i> in a bit of a pickle, doesn’t it.  Not to mention <i>you</i>,” a hand flicks his way, “and your little friends…” the hand glides towards Nag (the already cruel smirk going darker and hungrier when Jacob refuses to react) and then over towards the kid and –</p>
<p>The trafficker actually double-takes, blinking and leaning forward suddenly.</p>
<p>And then – so dramatic and yet still fully genuine – he throws his head back and <i>sighs</i>, sounding annoyed and exasperated as he runs a hand over his lean face.  “Well, <i>friend</i>, anyway.”</p>
<p>The bottom falls out from Jacob’s stomach.</p>
<p>And there <i>has</i> to be some sign of that, but this time the trafficker <i>doesn’t</i> react – just turns a little to jerk a thumb in the kid’s direction and, casual as anything, snap “Someone get rid of that already” at the thugs behind him.</p>
<p>And then he turns back to Jacob – business smile almost apologetic and not paying the slightest mind as one of his men drags off the body of the kid (<i>Ainsley</i>.  His name was <i>Darren Ainsley</i>, Private, he was from Missouri, he was <i><b>nineteen</b></i>).</p>
<p>“Now then… where was I?”</p>
<p>The trafficker taps a finger to his forehead in a study of deep thought, shifts a few steps from side to side, and taps a foot against the filthy concrete floor, possibly not noticing but most likely just not <i>caring</i> that he’s now standing on a streak of Ainsley’s blood.</p>
<p>And Jacob stares at him, still and cold and <i>sick</i>, and imagines ripping out those grinning teeth – one by one – and driving them <i>deep</i> into the man-shaped <i>thing’s</i> sickly bright eyes.</p>
<p>And he must show that, somewhat – God knows he’s barely even trying to <i>hide</i> it; and this time the sick fuck <i>does</i> react – grin stretching wider and eyes going darker and hungrier, like he once again sees <i>exactly</i> what’s in Jacob’s mind and he <i>loves</i> it, and “Oh yeah,” the sick fuck <i>purrs</i>, snapping his fingers in mock epiphany.</p>
<p>Nag coughs.  </p>
<p>Ainsley’s blood shimmers on the concrete.  </p>
<p>And Jacob stares at the monster before him (average height, leanly muscled, ambiguously balanced in his thirties to forties with a hair-line preparing to recede from a widow’s peak, fancy shoes with basic jeans and a fancy jacket over a tacky button-up and a fucking <i>gold <b>chain</b></i> around his neck – just another bastard Afrikaner with criminal aspirations… unless you catch the blood under his nails and in his smile, or see the hunger and hatred and life of death and destruction inside his eyes) and it’s all he can do to not snarl all his hate and disgust at the sick smiling face.</p>
<p>And, if he doesn’t focus on that… Jacob’s pretty sure he’s going to realize that he’s afraid.</p>
<p>It’s easier as the man starts moving again, anyway; his fancy shoes click-clacking (a little less sharp and a little more sticky now) as he walks back over to Jacob, grin bright and hands dancing.  “I can’t <i>sell</i> you, can’t <i>ransom</i> you, and I don’t <i>want</i> to <i>kill</i> you… which leads to a very <i>upsetting</i> conundrum for me.  <i><b>But.</b></i>”</p>
<p>The man stops directly in front of him – close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body.</p>
<p>“As it so happens…”</p>
<p>A hand comes to rest (light and easy) on Jacob’s shoulder, dark eyes stare up into his and the smile gleams (like the open bars of a cage), and the hand squeezes ever so slightly and –</p>
<p>“I have a <i>proposition</i> for you, soldier boy.”</p>
<p>And Jacob stares down into the abyss inside the monster’s eyes, and in that moment he <i>sees</i> how easily he could lunge forward and <i>tear</i> out its throat with his fucking <i>teeth</i>.</p>
<p>Only…</p>
<p>Jacob stares… and he thinks of Nag – chained up and coughing wetly just down the wall from him.</p>
<p>Jacob stares, and he thinks of Ainsley – nineteen and <i>dead</i>, something to be dragged away like so much meat.</p>
<p>Jacob stares, and he thinks of the others – the other kids (Tjin and Caldwell), Leconte and MacDougal and Foster, Lieutenant Gutierrez, <i><b>Miller</b></i>, and how he doesn’t know if they’re alive or dead, free or caught, and –</p>
<p>Jacob stares.</p>
<p>And… </p>
<p>And at last… he speaks.</p>
<p>“What do you want me to do?”</p>
<p>And before Jacob’s eyes… the monster’s smile grows.</p>
<p>And the cage snaps shut.</p>
<p>And –</p>
<p>And…</p>
<p>It’s amazing… how quickly the world can change.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Chapter Warnings:  The Rook Islands, Slavery/Human-Trafficking, Imprisonment, Minor-Character Death, (Offscreen) Canon-Typical Violence, Non-Consensual Touching, Dehumanization, Coercion, and General Unpleasantness.</p>
<p>
  <i>In which a Soldier becomes a captive, and a Lord claims a few new slaves.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Sorry, Jacob.</i>
</p>
<p><i>Well then... the Rook Islands, in all their horror; honestly, it was only a matter of time before this collection found its way here.  Granted... judging by some of the comments that have come in I... suspect that Jacob's dance-partner for this one... <b>probably</b> isn't the one most of your were expecting/hoping for.  But, again, honestly?  Sometimes you just gotta subvert expectations - <b>especially</b> when that's the way the narrative pulls you.  And setting pre-Eden's-Gate!Jacob (who's still got morals and sanity and humanity and stuff in him) up against <b>Hoyt</b> (who I've <b>really</b> wanted to pit against at least <b>one</b> of the Seeds for a while now) - a militaristic social-Darwinist with a power complex, a tendency towards faux-affably-evilness, and a general disinterest/distaste for the more supernatural elements of Far Cry (aka - <b>kinda</b> a dark-mirror of FC5-era "Herald Jacob")?  Say it with me, y'all... <b>potential</b>.   Whiiiiich is my jam.  And horrible-bad-wrongness my peanut butter.  Put them together?  Om-nom-nom.</i>  XD</p>
<p><i>Well, anyway, that bout of madness aside; I am so very happy with how this turned ou-</i><br/>
*ominous creaking overhead*<br/>
<i>*glances upwards*  ... <span class="small"><b>You</b> get out of here.</span>  *coughs*  Sorry about that, y'all, where was I?  Oh, yeah, right - Happy with how this one turned out (more happy than I <b>should</b> be, honestly; I think I got a little too much of a kick out of putting Jacob on the other side of "Hahaha you are my prisoner so now I shall commence with the monologuing and bad-touching!"), and... well, I really hope y'all liked it too, even if it maybe wasn't what some/most/all of you were particularly expecting/hoping for.  I -</i><br/>
*overhead scurrying*<br/>
<i>*looking upwards* What in th- wait... *peers intently*  Plot-bunnies?  What are -</i><br/>
*om-nom-nomming sounds*<br/>
<i>Wait.  Wait!  Plot-bunnies, no!  Don't chew on those ropes -!"</i><br/>
<b>-snap-</b><br/>
<i>OH SHI-</i><br/>
*bludgeoned to the ground by falling sign*</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>*dust settles*</p>
<p>
  <i>Sign: TUNE IN NEXT TIME - FOR PART 2</i>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>          <span class="small">Did I ever tell you</span></p>
<p>     <span class="small">the <i>definition</i></span></p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>     <span class="small">of <i>insanity</i>?</span></p>
        </blockquote><div class="children module" id="children">
  <b class="heading">Works inspired by this one:</b>
  <ul>
    <li>
        <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29676606">take my brain (or what remains)</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightskyhaze/pseuds/nightskyhaze">nightskyhaze</a>
    </li>
  </ul>
</div></div></div>
</body>
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